


you can't break the ties that bind

by buttcasino



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blow Jobs, First Kiss, First Time, Hand Jobs, Julia and Eliot are stepsiblings.....kind of, M/M, Meet-Cute, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Semi-Public Sex, don't worry Margo will show up next chapter, please note the explicit rating for future chapters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-14
Updated: 2021-01-24
Packaged: 2021-03-12 02:02:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 24,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28752612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buttcasino/pseuds/buttcasino
Summary: Quentin, Julia, and James head back to Jersey for Thanksgiving. Julia's dad, recently divorced, has a new girlfriend. And that new girlfriend has a nephew. Julia thinks he's annoying. Quentin...well.
Relationships: Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh
Comments: 72
Kudos: 121





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ameliajessica](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ameliajessica/gifts).



> I am 100% blaming this on the fact that a certain author of a certain book trilogy is clearly obsessed with Brideshead Revisited, which I read for the first time over the holiday. When I got to the part about how Sebastian's sister is named Julia I was like..."wow." And then I was like..."what if Julia and Eliot were siblings lol."
> 
> So this fic morphed out of that stray thought. And I initially meant for it to be a short little thing, "just vibes and kissing" as I explained. However, as these things tend to do, it got out of hand and now it's a multi-chapter affair. 
> 
> This fic is for Mel/ameliajessica in celebration of her birthday! Which has actually passed, but it's still within the same week, so I think it counts! Happy Birthday, Mel! I love you! Please enjoy chapter 1 of this ludicrous story.

“Well, that’s it, Thanksgiving is officially ruined.” 

Quentin looks up from his laptop, where he’s frantically typing out the closing paragraph of a paper due at 11:59PM. Why his professor had decided to make the Wednesday night before Thanksgiving the due date, instead of giving them the weekend, had been a mystery to Quentin and indeed, the entire class. 

“You’ll be thanking me when you go into your post-turkey food comas and don’t have to worry about your papers,” Professor Yang had insisted. “Now you can participate in the nightmare consumerism of Black Friday in peace.”

Quentin is sure that this time tomorrow he’ll be thrilled with all of this. That’s great for Future Him, but the Quentin of right now, 11:02PM, less than an hour and counting to go? Yeah, this Quentin isn’t feeling the love.

Not exactly the best time for Julia’s dramatics. But he can hardly complain, considering all the times he’s had his own extremely inconvenient dramatics and Julia had come through with every bit of her considerable best friend support. 

“What’s up?” he asks, making sure to pause his typing so she can tell he’s _really_ listening. 

Julia sighs. “My dad’s girlfriend’s obnoxious nephew is coming to dinner tomorrow.”

Ah. Right. The obnoxious nephew. For someone he’s never met, Quentin has heard a great deal about this guy and his apparent obnoxiousness. According to Julia, his faults include: putting on pretentious airs even though she knows very well he’s from some tiny town in the middle of nowhere, not being as funny as he thinks he is, always overdressing for something as simple as a casual dinner, and just generally being “extra.” 

Julia is pacing back and forth now, worriedly gnawing on her thumbnail. 

“I mean, I’m not trying to be a bitch. She—the girlfriend—seems nice. Which he absolutely deserves after putting up with my _mother_ for all those years.” 

Julia’s parents had, to everyone’s surprise, gone through a messy divorce last year. The surprise wasn’t because they had such a great relationship; they didn’t. Even as a kid, Quentin, who was over at their house practically every day that Julia wasn’t at his, could tell that. On a good day, their attitude towards each other was “icily polite” and on a bad day, well. Yeah.

There was the whole…incident where Julia’s dad had “gone away” for awhile and everyone had said it was a business trip, and it was only later that Julia told him that he’d actually done a stint in a psychiatric facility. 

“My fucking mother,” she’d spit out. “She thinks anyone who dares to express any negative emotion is cracking up. Just because she’s a frigid bitch with no feelings doesn’t mean the rest of us are crazy for not being able to deal with her bullshit.” 

How many times, when they were teeangers, hiding up in her room as her parents yelled at each other downstairs, had Julia rolled her eyes and said “I wish they’d just split up already and save us all the fucking grief.” It was a lot. She’d reasoned that maybe they were waiting for her to leave for college. No dice. 

And then, seemingly randomly, during the spring semester of Julia’s junior year at Columbia, they’d finally gone through with it. That had been the surprise; if the “business trip” or their youngest daughter moving out hadn’t triggered it, why now? 

Her dad, now retired, had kept the house, and her mom had moved to Boca Raton. Quentin doesn’t think Julia has seen her since. Quentin hasn’t seen his own mom in longer than he can remember—was it last Christmas?—and isn’t as bothered about it as he sometimes feels he should be. Just one more thing he and Julia have in common now.

And recently, Julia’s dad had gotten a _girlfriend_ ; a woman who had recently moved to town and frequented the same coffee shop mid-morning, after the commuter crowd had come and gone. Things had apparently gotten pretty serious in a fairly short time, but Quentin supposes when you’re old, you don’t really feel like waiting around. Fuck it. Why not. Might as well go all in. 

Julia is a little more cynical about it. She’s supportive of her dad dating again in general, but thinks they’re moving too fast and that it’s unlikely the very first person he goes out with after divorcing her mom is “the one.” 

“Nothing against her, just like, statistically,” Julia had explained. 

Which brings them to Thanksgiving, and how her dad’s girlfriend was joining them.. And now, apparently, the obnoxious nephew. 

“So it’s gonna be you and James, Mackenzie, your dad, the girlfriend, and the nephew?” 

Quentin surreptitiously checks the time on his laptop. He should be able to bang the rest of this thing out in about five minutes, and then run spell check and do a quick read-over for clarity. He’s an edit-as-you-go type, so it should be fine. Cutting it close, but doable. 

Julia rolls her eyes. “Oh didn’t I tell you? That’s the other fun part. Mackenzie’s not coming. She thinks it’s _disrespectful_ to have _another woman_ over at the house where mom and dad used to live together. Give me a fucking break.” 

Julia’s sister Mackenzie had maybe been the only one who was surprised by the divorce, actually. Quentin had forgotten about her. It’s easy to forget about Mackenzie. She and Julia had never been close, far enough apart in age that Mackenzie had never had time or interest for what her little sister and her “weird nerdy friend” (a direct quote from a scornful 16-year-old Mackenzie) were up to. Then she’d moved away for college and Quentin can count on one hand the number of times he’s seen her since that happened, usually corresponding with Thanksgiving or Christmas. 

“Oh well,” Quentin shrugs. “She always day-drinks and by the time dinner comes around she’s on her third bottle of cab and you two end up fighting. It’ll be nicer without her.” 

Julia is rummaging around in the fridge now, probably looking for a can of lime sparkling water, which Quentin knows they’re out of, because he just drank the last one. She’ll glare at him about it, but he can’t help that everyone in the apartment agrees it’s the best flavor. 

“Oh, I don’t give a shit about seeing her. But it’s just so rude to our dad, you know? She’s so far up mommy dearest’s ass, it’s a miracle she can—”

“Hey babe, what’s going on? Q, did you finish your paper?”

James is back from the gym. He’s flushed and sweating, but like, attractively, because that’s how James does everything. It’s so annoying.

Julia whirls around, a sparkling water—lemon—in one hand and the other over her mouth. 

“Oh no, Q, your paper! I forgot.”

James shakes his head at her. “Jules, how could you forget about Q’s paper? I sent him three ‘keep grinding’ memes while I was on the treadmill.” 

He had. James was always sending stupid memes. Quentin, against his will, found them charming. 

“It’s okay,” Quentin says, as Julia walks over to give James a “welcome back from your treacherous journey to the campus gym” kiss. “I still have uh, about forty minutes.”

“Okay, hurry, I’ll leave you alone. I’ll bitch to James instead.”

James nods and swipes the sparkling water from Julia’s hand. He takes a swig. “That’s what I’m here for. Hey, are we out of lime?” 

Quentin snorts and turns his attention back to his paper. Julia and James continue to putter around the kitchen, in search of a late night snack, talking quietly so as not to disturb him.

Half paying attention, he hears Julia relaying the news about Thanksgiving dinner and the obnoxious nephew’s presence and Mackenzie’s absence. James gets along with everybody and insists the nephew can’t be _that_ bad. Well. He gets along with almost everybody; he doesn’t even bother to pretend to be disappointed that Julia’s sister won’t be joining them. 

Quentin finishes up his paper with something that may be kind of deep, or may be trite bullshit, could go either way. But it is an upper-division Philosophy class, so that’s just how it goes. 

He’s reading it through once more, just in case he missed anything glaring, when he hears James say, “So what’s the deal with the nephew again? She adopted him?” 

He and Julia have hopped up on the counter and are eating cereal. 

Quentin realizes he hasn’t eaten since, uh, well, he’s not sure. His stomach rumbles. He’s going to get in on the cereal action, just as soon as he hits submit on this paper.

“Yeah, I guess his parents really suck? I don’t know, no one will give me details. I think it’s kind of hush-hush. Anyway, Emily, the aunt, took him in. They’re from like, Iowa or something, I don’t remember. One of those states,” Julia mumbles through a mouthful of Cap’n Crunch.

James crunches contemplatively on his cereal. “That’s sad. But nice of her.” 

The paper, Quentin decides, is in as good of shape as he cares to make it. He submits it. 11:52PM. Even a few minutes to spare. Time for a celebratory bowl of Cinnamon Toast Crunch, if James hasn’t taken it all.

“Done,” he declares and Julia and James let out cheers from their spots on the counter. 

“Saved the rest of the CTC just for you, dude,” James says as Quentin grabs a bowl. “You deserve it.” 

James is so nice, and thoughtful, and funny, in addition to being hot, and it’s actually impossible to hate him, even though he had swooped in and captured Julia’s heart their first week at Columbia, just when Quentin thought maybe he’d have a chance; now that they were out of high school and away from their familiar life in Jersey, maybe she’d see him in a new light, maybe—

But there’s no competing with all of that. And he’s grown to genuinely like James, and barely resents him all anymore, even if sometimes Quentin has to hear the two of them in their room and then he ends up having to jerk off before he can fall asleep and he’s not sure which one of them he’s thinking about. That’s all fine. It’s like a normal college thing to go through. 

Quentin joins them on the counter and they talk about what time they’re taking the train out the next morning. As per tradition, Quentin is having an early dinner at his dad’s house and then, once his dad has passed out in his recliner watching football, will head over to Julia’s for dessert. 

Then they’ll spend the rest of the weekend watching some movies, kicking around town, going to their favorite pizza parlor where the owners know their names and there’s even pictures of little Q and Julia on the wall throughout the years, scattered among other photos of kids celebrating their birthdays. It’ll be a nice weekend, with nothing to do but relax. So Quentin’s profesor was right after all. Fine.

“But I need you two with me on this,” Julia says, her face stern. James and Quentin nod, even though it’s not clear yet what they’re agreeing to. 

“He’ll probably try to get you on his side, act all charming, but you need to resist. I am not going to get forced into being friends with this guy just because my dad likes his aunt. They probably won’t even be together anymore by this time next year.”

James and Quentin nod again. 

“So be polite, but don’t encourage him,” Julia says, pointing a finger at each of them. “Especially you, Q.”

Quentin chokes on a mouthful of cereal. “What? Me? Why _especially_ me?” 

He does _not_ like, or understand, the look that Julia is giving him. 

“Just trust me on this one,” she says, annoyingly mysterious.

Quentin’s not sure why Julia thinks he’s at risk for being too friendly to this guy; if he’s as annoying as she says, then there shouldn’t be any problem, right? Besides, _James_ is the one who is overly nice and makes friends wherever he goes, not him. 

“Sure,” Quentin says, rolling his eyes. “Whatever. I promise not to be too nice to your dad’s girlfriend’s nephew.”

God, Julia is so weird. But he’ll support her, because that’s what best friends do.

-

They take the first train out. Miraculously, they manage to make it, even though Quentin had fallen asleep before packing and forgot to set his alarm. He’d had to run around scrambling after Julia’s frantic knocking woke him up. 

When they’re pulling into their station in Montclair, Julia checks her phone and lets out a “oh god, no,” under her breath. She relays the news that her dad has sent the annoying nephew to pick them up. 

The three of them gather their bags and step off onto the platform. Julia is still complaining about their ride situation as they make their way towards the parking area. 

“I can’t believe my dad couldn’t take ten minutes to come get us himself, like I could’ve just called an Uber if he—”

“Well well well, if it isn’t Miss Julia Wicker and company. Fancy meeting you here.” 

Julia rolls her eyes. Quentin whips around and finds himself face-to-face with the hottest guy he’s ever seen in real life.

“Eliot,” Julia acknowledges.

Wow. Okay. Eliot. That’s his name? Had Julia actually ever said his name before, or had she exclusively referred to him as The Obnoxious Nephew. Quentin’s not sure what he expected The Obnoxious Nephew’s name to be, but. It wasn’t Eliot. Eliot is the name of a handsome like, regency or Victorian-era lord or duke or something, complete with a gorgeous estate and a tragic past but really he’s very romantic and tender underneath it all. 

He’s even dressed the part, in a soft and very expensive looking tan coat with an upturned collar, and tall boots that emphasize that yes, his legs are really that long. 

Not Quentin’s typical genre, but he’d taken a class on Jane Austen and the novel last year, and really, she’s severely underrated by literary snobs and dumb bros who write it off as “chick lit,” without realizing her works were also full of—

Anyway. Eliot. Not an Obnoxious Nephew Name. That would be something like, Tyler. Or Troy. Yeah. Quentin and Julia had gone to high school with a Troy and he was a total dick.

Quentin takes in Eliot’s considerable height and his gorgeous curls that fall across his forehead in a way that looks effortless but probably isn’t, and his striking eyes and, yeah, his mouth, and oh look at that, even his _nose_ is handsome in a like marble statue of some Greek god kind of way. 

In all her ranting about how snotty and annoying and over the top The Obnoxious Nephew, who’s name is Eliot, is, why hadn’t Julia mentioned _all this_?

Then he remembers Julia’s weird “especially you, Q” comment and realizes that was her extremely indirect mention of…all this. 

“Julia! Is this your boyfriend?” Eliot asks, and it takes Quentin a second to realize that Eliot is looking at _him_ and not James. “Wow. Way to go.”

“Um,” Quentin laughs.

“Oh,” Julia says. “No. That’s just Quentin. This is James, my boyfriend.”

Trying not to wince at the sudden jolt of pain he feels at _that’s just Quentin_ —yeah, that’s basically always been the way it is, huh—Quentin notices that Eliot is still staring at him and hasn’t glanced in Julia and James’ direction at all.

“ _This_ is the famous Quentin?” Eliot asks, his eyes very obviously taking him in from head to toe. “You’ve been holding out on me, Julia. I’ve heard so much about Quentin, your best friend since you were a kid, but you somehow never mentioned how cute he is.” 

_Cute_? Quentin repeats in his head. 

“Uh,” Quentin says out loud. “Hi?”

Eliot holds out his hand. 

“Pleasure. I’m Eliot.”

Quentin reaches out too, because apparently they’re shaking hands now, and okay, yeah, there’s a definite tingling in his fingers when they touch, but that’s probably just like, static shock left over from grabbing the metal handrail on his way out of the train, right?

Eliot’s hand is warm and. Big. It’s big. Quentin isn’t putting any sort of value judgement on that or insinuate anything or have that lead to other thoughts about other places Eliot’s big hands could go. It’s just a fact.

Julia clears her throat. Pointedly.

Quentin startles, but Eliot smoothly releases his hand with a final squeeze, and turns to Julia and James with a smile.

“And _this_ is James. Well, Julia, I have to say, you certainly know how to pick ‘em.”

Eliot and James shake hands too, though seemingly without the static shock, and then they head to the car.

Eliot offers Julia the front seat, but she shakes her head. 

“No, that’s okay, I’ll sit in the back with James. Why don’t you sit up front and give directions, Q? Since we’re dropping you off first anyway?”

“Oh you’re not coming for dinner?” Eliot asks, managing to sound genuinely disappointed, despite the fact that they literally just met less than five minutes ago. 

“I’m eating at my dad’s, but I’ll be over later, for dessert,” Quentin says, and what the hell, Eliot is actually opening the car door for him and holding it open like he’s a chauffeur or like they’re teenagers on a date to like, the fucking sock hop in 1955.

Eliot smiles. “Good.” 

So now Quentin’s sitting next to Eliot in Julia’s dad’s very nice car and trying not to stare at his hand on the gear shift. Quentin had barely learned to drive at all, let alone stick shift. But Eliot seems to be a natural. 

It’s not far to Quentin’s dad’s house, and Quentin is simultaneously disappointed and relieved when they pull into the driveway.

“Okay, see you guys later,” he says, as he somehow manages to get himself tangled in the seatbelt while exiting the car.

Julia and James are laughing at him, but Eliot just gives him another one of those slow smiles and says, “Looking forward to it.”

“Okay, yeah, for sure, me too,” Quentin babbles. He slams the car door shut. “Bye!” 

Then he books it into the house.

-

Dinner at his dad’s is a lowkey affair, as always. Neither of them are into cooking elaborate meals, or the dishes that follow, so they opt for their version of luxury: giant sandwiches piled with freshly sliced turkey from the local deli on bread from their favorite bakery, and every kind of chip they could find at the grocery store. Plus beer for his dad and wine for Quentin.

“You’re really old enough enough to drink that? Twenty-two? Are you sure?” his dad chuckles. He makes the same joke every time Quentin drinks in front of him. 

They eat in front of the TV, channel hopping and talking about nothing in particular. Quentin has always preferred these no-frills days with his dad than what passed for holidays at his mom’s house: fancy meals and the good plates and silverware, sure, but also uncomfortable silences and Quentin’s fear of saying anything that would annoy his mom or Mollie. Plus, once he got older, pointed questions about his future that clearly indicated they were already disappointed in whatever he was going to choose. 

“Well, I’m paying for it,” his mom had said multiple times when Quentin had brushed off her questions about “what exactly” he planned to do with his double major in Philosophy and English Literature. “I think I deserve to know what you plan to do with your life.” 

Technically, she and his dad are “splitting” the Columbia tuition, but Quentin knows that her “half” of the bill is actually—a lot—more than half. She’d offered to pay it all, but Ted had insisted on contributing, despite the financial strain. He was proud of his son for getting into such a great university and wanted to “do his part.” Quentin had known better than to argue. 

Today, all he gets is a perfunctory “Happy Thanksgiving” message from his mom; she and Mollie had gone to some ski resort in Connecticut with friends for the weekend. Quentin can’t say he’d been disappointed when she’d told him she wouldn’t be home. 

Quentin will take his dad’s store-bought food and unwanted but well-meaning “any idea what you’ll do when you graduate?” questions any day. He can technically graduate after this semester, but the prospect is daunting. If he does that, he’ll have to make a decision. Maybe he’ll just do an extra semester, finish up a minor or something, while he sorts through his options.

But thankfully, his dad doesn’t push it and they continue eating their sandwiches in peace.

Normally, this would all be very pleasant and relaxing. Normally, Quentin would not be completely distracted by what’s going on at Julia’s house, because normally, what’s going on at Julia’s house wouldn’t involve an incredibly hot guy who had called him cute and who Quentin was supposed to dislike. Because Julia said so. 

And in a little bit, Quentin is going to have to go to Julia’s dad’s house and see the guy he’s supposed to dislike. The hot guy who very clearly announced to everyone within hearing range at the train station that he thinks Quentin is cute. 

He’s both dreading it and also can’t help but feel a little impatient at having to wait until they’re done eating and his dad takes his requisite Thanksgiving nap. This is supposed to be a day for _relaxing_ , not obsessing over a hot, tall, guy who is way out of his league, and anyway it doesn’t matter because Julia would never allow it. 

_But he thinks I’m cute_. Quentin can’t remember the last time someone had said that about him. Actually, maybe it had been James, when Quentin had hooked up with one of his lacrosse teammates at a party and the guy had been a total jerk about it later. James had been furious, despite Quentin’s insistence that it wasn’t a big deal. 

“Q,” he’d said, completely earnest, “You’re like, such a catch, you know, you’re really smart and cute and you deserve better. Don’t worry about that asshole. No one on the team likes him.” 

So, there you go. His best friend’s boyfriend thinks he’s a catch. Add that one to his dating profile. If it existed, which it doesn’t. He refuses to make one, even though Julia—and James—have been pestering him to do it. 

Right on cue, after they’ve stuffed their faces, Ted falls asleep in his Lazy-Boy and Quentin does the minimal cleanup, covers his dad with a quilt, and heads over to Julia’s. 

It’s not a long walk, despite the fact that Julia’s parents live in a _much_ nicer neighborhood, and the exercise in the brisk air is doing wonders after all the turkey and carbs. He has to make sure he’s saved room for Julia’s dad’s pumpkin pie. And also, he doesn’t want to throw up from nerves. 

A quick check of his phone reveals a few texts each from Julia and James.

 _LMK when you’re on your way_ , Julia had said a few hours ago. 

_Dude wish you were here it’s so awkward…come save me lol_ , from James about twenty minutes ago. Complete with a skull emoji. 

Great. 

_Omw now_ , he says to Julia. To James: _what’s going on???_

James responds almost immediately. 

_nothing really but jules keeps kicking me under the table when she thinks i’m getting too chatty w/ elliot (sp? not sure lol) so i’m just like sitting here eating my turkey in silence haha_

Sounds about right.

_he brought this wine that jules dad really liked and she said it was “just okay” lol like she gives a shit about wine_

Quentin texts back a quick “lol” and wonders if maybe he should’ve changed into something nicer, then immediately berates himself for the thought. Who is he dressing up for? Certainly not Julia or James, and not either of the adults—uh, older adults. And there is absolutely no reason to get fancy for Eliot the Obnoxious But Actually Really Hot Nephew, who apparently also knows about wine.

Nothing is going to happen there. So it really doesn’t matter that he’s wearing his ratty old black jeans and a wrinkled black button down under his winter coat that has definitely seen better days, but it’s warm, so what the hell. 

When he arrives at the house, he climbs the steps onto the porch, and as if on queue, the door swings open before he’s even made it all the way there. James steps outside and throws his arms around him dramatically. 

“Finally!” 

Quentin awkwardly returns the hug and reaches up to pat James on the back, trying to not notice that his arms are really strong and he smells good. He knows it’s the cologne Julia had gotten him for Christmas last year. 

She’d had Quentin help pick it out. She’d said she wanted a guy’s opinion. He’s not sure he gave her what she was looking for. Well, he had, in the sense that he is a guy and he’d offered his opinion. But not in the way she’d been picturing it, probably. 

He hadn’t thought about if he’d like the scents on himself. He’d thought of James you know, any person, it didn’t have to be James in particular, wearing each of them and thought, if he were the person who had to inhale that smell every time they hugged or kissed or when he picked a discarded sweater off the back of a chair and held it to his nose—well, it should be nice for the person you spend most of your time with, right?

So yeah, he’d dutifully sniffed each of Julia’s top choices and picked his favorite. Julia, coincidentally, agreed. So. That was weird. Maybe he should’ve lobbied for his second choice. 

Anyway. it does smell as good on someone else as Quentin had imagined. Mercifully, James pulls away after a moment and they step out of the cold into the foyer.

“Thank god you’re here, Q.” James says in a hushed voice. “Mr. Wicker and Eliot are talking about cooking, like I guess he helped with the food today, and I love her, but you know Jules can’t cook. Which she will freely admit! And you know I can’t cook either, so no shade, but her dad made a joke about how neither of his kids inherited the chef gene. Like, not in a mean way? You know how dads are. Anyway—” 

“She didn’t like it?” Quentin guesses wryly as he shrugs off his coat.

James winces.

“Quentin? Is that you? Why are you standing around out there, come in and join us!”

They make their way to the dining room and Julia’s dad stands to shake his hand.

“Glad you could make it.”

“Uh, thanks Mr Wi—um, David. Happy Thanksgiving.” 

He’s always had trouble referring to Julia’s parents as anything other than “Mr. and Mrs. Wicker.” Julia’s always called _Quentin’s_ dad by his first name with no issue, but Julia’s parents are. Different. They’d always been perfectly polite to him, if a little distant. But since the divorce, Mr. Wicker—David, as he had recently insisted Quentin call him, has loosened up a bit. (Julia’s mom, Camille, has not asked Quentin to call her that, and has presumably not loosened up, either.)

Retiring from his high-pay, high-stress job as partner of a prominent New York law firm also surely has something to do with that. According to Julia, he now spends his time trying out elaborate recipes and has taken up bicycling. Having a new girlfriend can’t hurt either. 

The girlfriend, Eliot’s aunt, also stands up to greet Quentin, only with a hug instead of a handshake. She’s a platinum blonde with a big smile and funky glasses and she has on a colorful outfit that screams “artsy.” She has a fancy shawl and everything. 

She certainly could not be any different from Julia’s mother, who basically looks like an older version of Julia, if Julia had been sapped of all her warmth. That sounds mean, but Quentin hadn’t even come up with it; a Columbia classmate majoring in Creative Writing had drunkenly made this pronouncement while scrolling through Julia’s Instagram photos at a party. 

Julia had snorted and taken a drag of her cigarette and said, “That’s good, I’m going to use that one.”

 _Warm_ is definitely one of the first words that Quentin would use to describe the new girlfriend. 

“We’ve heard so much about you,” Emily says, as she steps back as if to appraise him. “And my goodness, such a handsome young man. My nephew certainly was right about that.”

Quentin feels his face flush. 

He tries very hard _not_ to look over at Eliot, who is lounging in his chair with an elegant ease, like a king on a throne, a glass of wine in his hand. He’s giving Quentin that smile again.

“Oh, I—wow. Thank you?” he says, and Emily laughs and pinches his cheeks. Which is like, an objectively weird and kind of invasive thing to do to someone, especially a person you just met, but something about her just makes it okay somehow.

“And modest, too. It’s a wonder some lucky girl or guy hasn’t snatched you right up! But please, sit down, we were just about to serve the pie.”

The only seat left is next to Eliot. Naturally.

“Saved it just for you,” Eliot comments, as if they’re talking about a stool at a crowded bar and not a chair at Julia’s dad’s dining room table.

Quentin swallows, hard, and makes his way to his _saved seat_ and then, holy shit, Eliot actually stands upand _pulls the chair out_ and gestures for Quentin to sit.

Wordlessly, he does, and Eliot uh, helpfully adjusts his chair so that he’s situated properly. Literally no one has ever done this for Quentin before. He has never, in his limited dating experience, ever done this for someone else. He’s had years of what essentially amounted to third-wheeling on James and Julia’s dates, and he’s never seen James do this for her—to be fair, Julia would probably roll her eyes if he tried. 

Quentin didn’t even think anyone in real life did this anymore, save from like, hosts at super fancy restaurants. He can kind of see why Julia finds Eliot annoying; she’d grown up with money and had been dragged to a lot of boring dinners and galas throughout her life and always complained to Quentin about how stuffy and stuck in the past all of her dad’s coworkers and her mom’s “friends” are.

“Rich people are so annoying,” Julia had declared on more than one occasion. 

Quentin doesn't point out that she’d let her parents pay for her tuition without complaint, and also for the apartment that Julia, James and Quentin shared; they didn’t even charge rent. So you know, sure, rich people are annoying, but money comes in handy.

He doesn't even know if Eliot’s rich. Julia had said he was from—Iowa? Maybe? Which, okay, obviously there are rich people in Iowa, it would be totally like, classist to think there weren’t, but he has no idea of Eliot’s background, other than the fact that he doesn’t have the best relationship with his parents and Emily is his aunt.

It’s just…a vibe he gives off, like he fits in here, at Julia’s dad’s very nice house, and probably with all the stuck-up cultured people her mom knows from being on the board of the Met. 

Sure enough, he looks across the table now to see Julia shaking her head in clear irritation. He can’t tell if her annoyance is more for Eliot’s little display of etiquette or Quentin going along with it. Well, what was he supposed to do, _refuse_? Besides, it was kind of nice, wasn’t it? 

Emily comes back in with the pie and Eliot starts to offer to serve it, when Julia cuts him off and bounces out of her seat. 

“I’ll do it. This is my family’s house, after all,” Julia says, her voice airy. “You’re our _guest_.” 

Somehow, the emphasis she puts on that last word manages to come across as insult, despite her silky tone. Apparently she did pick up some things from her mother, after all. Yikes.

James widens his eyes at Quentin behind Julia’s back. 

If Eliot notices—of course he did, it was impossible to miss—he doesn’t miss a beat. He smiles graciously as he slides smoothly back into his seat and says, “Of course. Thank you for making me feel _so_ welcomed.”

James types something out on his phone and then gestures at Quentin to check his own.

_it’s been like this all day fml_

Julia serves the pie and Emily brings out cups of coffee, and the conversation turns from how school is going for Quentin (fine), to the latest shows on Broadway (he hasn’t been to a show since The Lion King, which makes Eliot laugh for some reason), and finally back to cooking (no comment). 

Then, Quentin chokes on a piece of pie when Eliot mentions something about “spatchcocking,” which it turns out is just a way of cooking chicken, as Julia’s dad explains as Quentin coughs and gulps down coffee and James cracks up across the table. 

“I’ll have to show you sometime,” Eliot says with a wink. 

Quentin coughs some more. Julia sighs. 

“You know, I think Eliot’s airbnb in the city isn’t too far from your place,” Emily muses as Quentin struggles to get it together. “He’s staying there with his friend Margo while their school is on winter break. She’s a peach, you’ll just love her. You kids should get together once you three are done with finals!”

Julia’s dad agrees that it would be “just great” if this were to happen, “don’t you think so, Jules?” and Julia smiles weakly and nods.

The thought of spending unsupervised time with Julia, James, and Eliot is enough to make Quentin stop coughing, if only because he temporarily forgets to breathe. 

“Sure, sounds…fun,” James says, and then shoves another piece of pie in his mouth, a convenient excuse to stop talking. 

Eliot looks genuinely into the idea. What is his _deal_? Surely he could hang out with literally anyone he wanted to just by snapping his fingers. 

“It’s a date,” Eliot says. “And I’ll invite Margo, too. I know she’d _love_ to meet you.”

He says _you_ like he’s addressing all of them but he’s only looking at Quentin when he says it. Which Quentin notices despite the fact that he’s determinedly trying to not meet Eliot’s glance. 

He just managed to stop hacking up a lung.

“Jesus,” Julia very audibly mutters from across the table. 

Emily throws in the hope that maybe Julia’s sister will be able to join them as well—as far as Quentin remembers, she lives somewhere midtown, but it’s not like she ever comes up for a visit, so she may as well live across the country. 

“Uh huh,” Julia mutters. “Hm. Excuse me. I need to use the restroom.”

Everyone’s pretty much done with their pie at that point, so David and Emily declare it’s time to do the dishes. Eliot is allowed into the kitchen, but when James and Quentin offer to help, they are shooed away and instructed to go “relax.”

They wander to the living room, where a half-finished holiday-themed jigsaw puzzle sits on the coffee table. Quentin’s never seen one in Julia’s house before; his own dad is big on puzzles and always has one going on the dining room table that they don’t often use for dining. Apparently, Emily has introduced Julia’s dad to the joys of puzzling. 

The puzzle occupies their attention for a few minutes, until James’ phone buzzes. 

“It’s my mom,” he says. “Be right back.”

James’ mom is a big talker and James is endlessly patient with her, so Quentin doubts he’ll be _right back_. Quentin hears him saying “Hey mom! Happy Thanksgiving! How’s Aunt Berniece doing? Oh, really? That’s too bad…” as he paces the hallway.

Quentin sighs and considers continuing with the puzzle, but he’s just not in the right headspace for it. He decides to go sit outside and smoke. Just one. Maybe two. He’s trying to cut back, but this counts as a stressful situation. 

-

Quentin slips his jacket on and steps out of the front door and settles on the porch swing. It creaks and groans, but still supports him just fine. He and Julia had always loved to sit out here while they read the Fillory books, wrapped in a quilt and drinking cups of cocoa that they perched precariously between their knees as they turned the pages.

 _you ok?_ he texts her and gets a reassurance that yes, she’s fine, she just needs a few minutes to herself to recover from the “aggressive bonding campaign.” Quentin can’t help but laugh. Julia accuses him of being dramatic a lot, but she can really hold her own. 

He fishes in his coat pocket for his cigarettes and lighter. It’s cold, but not cold enough to be unpleasant. The cool air feels like relief on his skin, as if he’d been overheated and hadn’t even realized it. The street is quiet and dark and Quentin closes his eyes and sighs in relief as he takes his first drag.

He manages to get in a few minutes of peace and quiet before—

“Bad boy.” 

Quentin nearly falls off the swing. In the end, he manages to right himself, but he _does_ drop his cigarette.

“Fuck,” he gasps, and stomps on the still lit and smoking butt. It would be just his luck that the wooden porch would catch fire and Julia’s dad’s entire house would burn down, because of Quentin and his inability to be normal. 

When he looks up, Eliot is standing in the doorway, silently laughing. 

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you. Here, allow me.”

He closes the door behind him, crosses the porch and takes a seat next to Quentin on the swing. Then, he reaches into his own coat pocket and pulls out a pack of cigarettes and fancy-looking metal lighter, a far cry from the cheap piece of shit Bic Quentin is using. 

He holds the cigarettes out to Quentin.

“Uh, thanks,” Quentin mumbles. 

He manages to extricate one and bring it to his lips, despite his trembling fingers. 

Eliot leans over and lights the cigarette for him, with his fancy lighter. He keeps his eyes on Quentin’s the whole time, and his mouth parts a little, as if they’re sharing breath.

The pleasant burning in his chest and the shiver that runs through Quentin’s entire body is only partially because of the nicotine. 

“So, what happened,” Quentin asks after a moment, his voice rough from the smoke. “Did you get kicked off dish duty?”

Eliot nods as he lights his own cigarette.

“Yeah, my aunt ordered me to go hang out with ‘the other kids.’ You’re the only one I could find, so I guess you’re stuck with me.” 

Quentin scoffs. “More like you’re stuck with me.”

“Mm…well, don’t tell your friends, but you’re the only one I really wanted to find,” Eliot says, and then he smiles around the cigarette in his mouth. 

More to distract himself from the frantic beating of his heart than anything, Quentin protests, “Oh, well—I mean, they’re cool. Julia’s actually really fun, she’s just uh—” 

“Not a fan of mine,” Eliot laughs. “No, it’s okay. It’s pretty obvious.”

Quentin shrugs. “I just think—she thinks the whole thing is kind of sudden, and she’s just looking out for her dad, you know? Not that your aunt doesn’t seem really nice, I mean—” 

Eliot laughs. “She is really nice. Don’t know where she gets it from. Everyone else in the family is an asshole. Including me.”

“Oh, no, you’re—”

“Yeah, I am. Like how I flirted with you all through dessert, even though it clearly annoyed Julia, and actually, annoying Julia just made it more fun,” Eliot says. “Kind of an asshole move, right?” 

Holy shit. Quentin had known, on some level, that Eliot was flirting with him. It would be impossible not to notice. But something about hearing it put out there like that, on display… 

“So you were just flirting with me to annoy Julia?” he can’t help but ask. That would make sense. There’s no way someone like Eliot, with his stylish wardrobe and fancy cigarette lighter and— _spatchcocking_ knowledge would genuinely be into _him_ , Quentin Coldwater, right? 

Eliot takes another drag of his cigarette. “Nope. I went on for longer than necessary about the tanninsand the legs on the wine because it was funny to see her reaction. But I was flirting with you because I like flirting with cute boys.” 

There it is again. Cute. In the past, he can remember it being an insult almost. Like, _you’re cute, but I think we’d be better as friends_ , as one girl in his Jane Austen class had put it, after they’d gone on exactly one date, which Quentin thought had gone really well, actually, until that conversation. Cute. Condescending. Like he was her little brother or something. 

But when Eliot says it…it doesn’t sound that way.

“I—oh. Okay. Good to know?” he manages to mumble. He taps the ash off the end of his cigarette and clears his throat. God, he’s such a moron. Any second, Eliot is going to realize he’s not worth it, no matter how _cute_ he may appear on the outside.

“She seemed _really_ annoyed though,” Eliot says thoughtfully as he drops his cigarette butt and elegantly grinds it out with the toe of his very tall boots for his very long legs. “Are you sure you two have never—”

Quentin laughs, louder than he intended. “What? Me and Julia? Are you kidding? No way. Hah. She’s never been—I mean, I maybe uh, had a thing for her back in high school, but you know, that was—years ago. I’m over it. Definitely.”

Eliot is clearly amused, but he doesn’t laugh. He just nods and lights another cigarette. 

“Remind me to clean up the mess when we’re done out here. Aunt Emily thinks I quit, and I wouldn’t want to drive down the property value of Mr. Wicker’s home by leaving trash on the porch.”

Even though he says that last part with every evidence of sincerity, something in his tone and the lilt of his mouth makes Quentin laugh. Eliot smiles then, like he’s pleased by that response.

Then, after a moment: “It’s her loss.” 

Quentin blinks in confusion. “Huh?”

“Julia,” Eliot says, blowing a waft of smoke into the air. “If she’s never been into you. She’s a moron. You’re way hotter than her boyfriend.”

Something in Quentin’s brain freezes for a moment. 

“Are you crazy? You—I mean you’ve seen him,” he sputters. 

“Yep. I sure have. Sat right across from him during dinner and dessert. He’s fine,” Eliot shrugs.

Quentin takes a desperate last drag at his cigarette before flinging it to the ground. 

“I—I mean, he’s like the textbook definition—he plays lacrosse,” he insists, as if that explains anything. 

Eliot nods in acknowledgment of the fact that James plays lacrosse. He holds out his cigarettes and Quentin takes one. He even lets Eliot light it for him again, because what the hell. Nothing makes sense anymore.

He takes a drag and notices Eliot is staring at him with an annoyingly knowing expression on his face. 

“ _What_?” he grumbles. 

“Oh, just thinking. I guess you’re right. James is pretty hot. But he’s like, a jock. So he’s probably dumb then, right?” 

“He is not!” Quentin snaps. “He’s actually really smart. He’s graduating with honors and already has a job lined up at—hey.”

Eliot really is laughing at him now, the hand not holding a cigarette covering his mouth.

Quentin glares at him.

“I’m sorry,” Eliot gasps. “You’re just. So sweet.”

“I am not,” Quentin grumbles.

Quentin is used to being laughed at, but this is different. It doesn’t feel… _mean_. Quentin definitely feels weird and squirmy on the inside, but it’s not the same as the hot rush of shame from being mocked by the cool kids in his high school English class, or whatever. This is just…well, it’s a lot, for someone he’s literally never talked to before today.

“They’re both idiots, then,” Eliot concludes. 

Quentin shrugs.

“No, really,” Eliot continues, “Trust me. I bet one day fifty years from now, as they watch their twenty grandchildren playing in the yard, one of them will turn to the other and say, ‘my biggest regret in life is that we didn’t fuck our super hot best friend and roommate Quentin when we were in college.’”

Quentin is surprised by his own laughter, and Eliot smiles. 

“But of course, you’ll have moved on to bigger and better things long before that,” he continues. 

“Oh, of course,” Quentin snorts. “Like what?” 

Eliot’s eyes are warm as they trail over his body, up and down, just as he’d done at the train station. 

“That’s up to you,” he says.

Quentin’s cigarette sits ignored, slowly turning to ash between his fingers. 

He wants to say something, he does, but his breath is caught in his throat.

“And for what it’s worth,” Eliot continues, scooting closer to Quentin on the swing. The movement makes the chain creak and groan. “I have a kind of sixth sense about this sort of thing. And I don’t think it would’ve lived up to the hype. I can’t really speak to Julia’s charms on a personal level, although she’s of course objectively very attractive. But James…I don’t think he’d know what to do with you. He’d try, but he’s probably not very—”

“He’s a good kisser,” Quentin blurts out.

Eliot’s eyes widen. And Quentin feels a weird sort of pride that he’s finally turned the tables and said something to make _Eliot_ feel off-balance and too open. He hadn’t meant to say it. But then again, maybe he had. Maybe he wanted Eliot to know. 

“Okay,” Eliot says. “Quentin—what’s your last name again?”

“Uh…Coldwater?” Quentin’s not sure why he says it like a question.

“Quentin Coldwater…really? What’s your middle name? Okay, no, we’ll save that for another time. Quentin Coldwater, you’ve definitely been burying the lede on that one. I’m going to need details.”

He raises his eyebrows and Quentin sighs.

“Look—it wasn’t a big deal.”

“Okay, Quentin, I’m sorry, but the last minute addition of ‘oh yeah, my best friend’s boyfriend is a good kisser’ is, quite frankly, a game changer.”

Ugh.

“Fine. It was last year, we were at a party, some frat event—”

“Oh for everloving fuck’s sake, don’t tell me he’s in a frat, too,” Eliot groans and then holds up his hands in surrender at Quentin’s narrowed eyes.

Julia and James had dragged him to the party, and he’d grumbled and groaned the whole way there, and started out lurking in the corner with his drink, but after a few red Solo cups full of whatever concoction James was mixing up for them, Quentin was in a much better mood.

Julia had dragged him out of his corner and he’d actually danced—with Julia, with James, with Julia and James, with some people he vaguely knew, with strangers. It had actually been fun. The next thing he knew, he’d been roped into a game of Spin the Bottle.

At this, Eliot makes a noise of disbelief. 

“What?” Quentin asks.

“Well, it was a frat party, and you were playing Spin the Bottle? Like regular old kids in a teen romcom Spin the Bottle? There wasn’t any weird initiation bullshit or added freaky sexual dynamic?” 

Quentin rolls his eyes. “Yeah, just regular Spin the Bottle. I know it sounds weird, but just trust me, okay? Nothing you’d see on a Dateline episode about hazing gone wrong or whatever. Wait, where do you go to school?”

“I’m in a grad program. It’s a…tiny performing arts school upstate. No one’s ever heard of it,” Eliot says, waving his hand. 

Performing arts, huh? Quentin can see that. 

“What about undergrad?”

Eliot shrugs. “Oh, here and there.”

Quentin frowns. Okay. Sometimes people get about schools when they find out he goes to an Ivy. Not that he gives a shit, but whatever. 

So,” Eliot says on an exhale of smoke, “You were saying, about the very normal and wholesome Spin the Bottle game?”

It had just been a small group of them, broken away from the larger crowd at that point. Someone wondered if anyone ever played Spin the Bottle in real life or if it was just in the movies, and someone else said they’d never played, and wow, here’s an empty vodka bottle, we can fix that! The kind of thing that happens when you’re pleasantly drunk and so is everyone else.

The bottle had already landed on Quentin twice by the time it was his turn to spin. He’d gotten an enthusiastic, but closed mouth, smooch from one of James’ frat buddies, Logan, and a decidedly _not_ closed mouth kiss from a girl named Veronica, who Quentin had never met before that night, but seemed cool, and was apparently not averse to kissing him. He was thinking about maybe asking for her number later.

So then it had been his turn, and Julia had cheered him on, and Quentin had spun the bottle, and when it stopped, it was pointing straight at James. Quentin remembers looking at Julia, unsure, and she’d just laughed and said “well, it’s the rules!”

James was laughing too, and Quentin sort of remembers crawling across the circle of people and then he was there, and James had said “Hey Q,” and Quentin said hey back, and then he’d leaned up and.

He’s not really sure how he had meant for the kiss to go, not that he’d had a lot of time to like, logistically plan on his way over, but he’d wondered if they were just going to keep it like a closed mouth peck on the lips thing, and nope, definitely not. There had been tongue and the scrape of teeth against his bottom lip and James’ hand cupping his cheek and Quentin had been halfway into his lap. And then Julia was there saying, “okay, Q, I think that’s good,” her hands small but strong on his shoulders, pulling him back, and it was only then that Quentin had remembered what was going on. 

“Sorry,” he’d gasped, embarrassed, but James and Julia were both laughing still, like it didn’t even matter. Because it didn’t, to them. 

He’d jerked off thinking about it later that night when he was home in bed, and he hadn’t even remembered to ask Veronica for her number because he’d honestly forgotten all about her, but he’s sure neither Julia or James gave it another thought. 

“So, yeah, that’s all,” Quentin finishes with a shrug. “The best kiss I’ve had in years. Maybe ever? Pretty pathetic, huh?” 

Eliot is, for the first moment in the _very_ brief period Quentin has known him, without anything to say in response.

It’s a stupid thing to feel proud about, but Quentin takes in his slack jaw and his wide eyes and well. He’s a little proud. Now Eliot knows how it feels. 

“Quentin,” Eliot says after a long moment. 

“Yeah?”

“I need to ask you a question.” 

Quentin wants another cigarette, but he’s already had two, and that’s supposed to be his limit for the day. Besides, he’d have to reach into his pocket for that, and Eliot has made that harder to do by discarding his own cigarette and reaching out and taking both of Quentin’s hands in his. 

“Quentin,” Eliot says again. “I really cannot, in good conscience, allow this to stand as your best kiss. Your best friend’s boyfriend as part of a drunken game of Spin the Bottle at a god forsaken fraternity party. Unacceptable.” 

Quentin swallows, hard, and points out, “Uh, that’s not a question.” 

Eliot laughs and squeezes his hands. 

“God, you’re cute. Okay. My question is: will you let me update your best kiss ranking?” 

_Yes_ , Quentin thinks immediately. 

“How do you know what ranking I’ll give you?” he asks, in an attempt to act like he’s totally cool and could take it or leave it, but he’s already leaning forward and tilting his head up, so he thinks he’s pretty much failing. 

“Well,” Eliot says with a grin, “I guess I don’t. Please feel free to be honest in your assessment. If you’ll allow me the honor of giving it my best shot, of course.”

Quentin has no doubts that Eliot’s _best shot_ is quite something. Probably even his second or third-best shot is leagues better than anything Quentin has ever—

“Yes,” he says. “I mean, okay. You can…go ahead.”

 _Go ahead_? Really? Wow. Incredibly sexy of him. Eliot is definitely going to change his mind now, there’s no way he wants to actually kiss him after that.

And yet, miraculously, instead of pulling away, Eliot brings one hand up to touch his face, just a brush with the pads of his fingers, and even that feels like too much. 

“Okay,” Eliot agrees, and then he’s leaning down and cupping his cheek, and Quentin’s eyes flutter shut and then they’re kissing. 

Eliot’s mouth is gentle on his, and he strokes his thumb along Quentin’s jaw, which feels really nice, and then across the delicate shell of his ear, which feels _incredible_ , like, how did he never realize how amazing it felt to have someone touch him there. But maybe no one ever had, before now. 

He groans and then he’s brushing his tongue against Eliot’s, just once, an invitation. And then _Eliot_ is groaning, and he slides his hand to the back of Quentin’s neck as he deepens the kiss, a gentle, steady pressure. And okay, count that as another thing Quentin had no idea he really, really liked, but his entire body thrills at the feeling of being _held_ , everywhere, as Eliot’s other hand slips into the front of Quentin’s unzipped jacket and drags slowly along his waist on its way to press against the small of Quentin’s back, urging him closer. 

Quentin’s hands flail uselessly for a minute, before he settles on grabbing the lapels of Eliot’s coat, desperate for something to hold onto as Eliot teasingly nips at his lower lip before claiming his mouth in another kiss that makes Quentin’s toes curl in his shitty ankle boots.

“So? Five stars?” Eliot pulls away to murmur against his lips, and then Quentin can feel him laughing as he mumbles back, “shut _up_ ” and nips at Eliot’s lower lip right back, a little more demanding than the one he’d received.

It works though, and Eliot does indeed shut up and gets back to the task at hand, which has suddenly become the most vital thing in the world. Eliot can’t ever stop kissing him, or terrible things will happen. Terrible things like Quentin having to eventually kiss other people knowing that it will be a pale imitation to the time he kissed his best friend’s dad’s girlfriend’s nephew on the porch on Thanksgiving.

And then Eliot is gently tipping his head back with a tug of his hair. And then Eliot is kissing his neck and it feels amazing, and Quentin gasps and gasps for breath and he brings a hand to the back of Eliot’s head and tangles his fingers in the soft curls, just to hold him there, so he won’t stop doing _that_ with his teeth and his tongue. It’s going to leave a mark. The thought sends a frisson of heat down his spine and yeah, he’s definitely hard now, straining against his jeans. 

He’s so keyed up, he doesn’t even hear it when the front door opens.

“Hey, Q, are you—whoa.” 

Quentin gasps in surprise and his eyes snap open and then he’s looking directly at James, who is frozen with his hand on the doorknob, wide eyed. 

“Sorry, uh. Didn’t mean to interrupt.” 

Eliot pulls his mouth away from Quentin’s neck and lifts his head at what seems like a really slow, almost purposefully slow, pace, to give James a look that clearly says _well, you did_. He doesn’t move his hands from under Quentin’s jacket, where he’s grasping his hips. 

“Can we help you with something?” Eliot finally asks, and his lips are so red and swollen and his hair has fallen out of those artfully messy waves into actually messy and it’s all because of _Quentin_.

The cool, annoyed tone in his voice would be enough to make anyone feel uncomfortable. James certainly does, judging by the way he shuffles his feet and shifts his eyes. Quentin almost feels bad, except he’s too busy being smug and incredibly turned on that Eliot is annoyed because he wanted to keep making out with him. 

“Jules was just asking if you were still here. So I said I’d check,” James explains. 

Fuck. Quentin can’t go back in there right now and look Julia in the eye. She’ll just _know_ somehow, in that scary way she has. 

No one knows about Julia’s eerie powers of deduction better than James, who continues, “So, I guess I’ll just tell her that—I couldn’t find you? Because you went home?”

Translation: I won’t tell Julia that I found you out here necking with her dad’s girlfriend’s nephew, who you weren’t supposed to get too friendly with. 

“Uh, yeah. Thanks, James,” Quentin mumbles.

“No problem, dude,” James says, and gives him a one-handed finger gun. “Uh, see you later, Eliot.”

Eliot gives a half-hearted wiggle of his fingers as James steps inside and closes the door behind him. “Toodles.”

Quentin snorts out a laugh. 

“What?” Eliot asks. 

“ _Toodles_? Maybe you are kind of an asshole.” 

Eliot smiles. “I told you, didn’t I?” 

_I like it_ , Quentin thinks but doesn’t say. 

Instead, he resignedly sighs, “I probably should actually go.”

“Or you could stay,” Eliot whispers, leaning close. 

“And what?” Quentin whispers back. “You sneak me up to the guest room you’re staying in, right across the hall from Julia and James and—”

He feels his cheeks flush suddenly at the thought.

“Would you like that?” Eliot asks. The look on his face is—

Jesus. Quentin really has to leave. 

“I—I really need to—get home,” he sputters and Eliot takes pity on him. 

“Okay,” he says gently. He reaches out to tuck a strand of Quentin’s hair behind his ear with a tenderness that marks his breath catch in his throat. Out of everything they’ve done tonight, all the ways Eliot has touched him, this may be the one that undoes Quentin the most.

“Okay. Yeah. Tell everyone I said goodnight and thank you, and um, all that.” 

Eliot nods. “Will do. Are you sure you don’t want a ride? It’s kind of cold out here and it’s getting late.”

“No, it’s okay. It’s not far. And um. I could use the walk.” 

Eliot pulls out his phone. “Then I guess we’ll just have to exchange numbers, so you can text me that you’re home safe.” 

Well. He walked right into that one, didn’t he. 

He sighs and rattles off his digits, and Eliot taps it into his phone. 

Quentin’s own phone buzzes. 

“That’s from me. Now you have my number. I expect a text the minute you walk in the door, young man,” Eliot says.

And with that, Quentin forces himself to pull away from Eliot’s strong, warm hands and his perfect mouth and gorgeous eyes. He stands up. 

“Well. Goodnight.” 

Eliot lounges back in the swing and stretches his long legs out in front of him. He smiles widely and then bites his lip. Quentin shivers.

“Toodles,” Eliot says. 

It takes a few blocks for Quentin to stop laughing. He feels giddy, like he’s just pulled several all-nighters in a row during finals and now everything feels surreal and hilarious. 

When he gets inside his house, he texts Eliot right away, as instructed. 

_hi. I made it._

The response comes quickly, as if Eliot had been sitting there waiting for him. 

_kiss ranking feedback survey: on a scale of 1 to 10 how would you rate my services today?_

Quentin covers his mouth to stop from waking his dad with his laugh. 

Before he can overthink it, he types out a response.

_thanks for your inquiry. someone will respond within 5-7 business days._

He crawls into bed and stares at the ceiling.

Julia is going to _kill_ him. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After an eventful Thanksgiving (which Julia does NOT need to know about), Quentin heads back to school, sends some texts, checks his Instagram, and has a memorable post-finals night at the bar.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for your amazing comments on part 1!
> 
> Please note that the fic earns its explicit rating in this chapter, and also the increased chapter count...while writing this one it became evident that 3 was not going to cut it. Just so much to say on this topic. Who knew!
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

The next morning, Quentin wakes slowly, his brain fuzzy and his body warm all over. He’d been having an extremely vivid dream about making out with a hot guy on Julia’s dad’s front porch and he’s tangled in blankets, sweaty and overheated, hard against the mattress. He groans, wishes his body had let him stay asleep a little longer, to see where this little scenario his mind had cooked up was going to lead—

With a jolt, his brain comes completely online. He had, in fact, made out with a hot guy on Julia’s dad’s front porch last night. In real life. And apparently his dreaming brain wanted him to remember every vivid, sizzling detail, and his dick was determined to get in on the action, too. 

“Fuck,” he mumbles into his pillow. He holds very purposefully, carefully still. Maybe if he just ignores it and doesn’t move at all, his boner will go away on its own. _Like the t-rex in Jurassic Park_ , he thinks, before he can stop himself. Okay. Now he definitely doesn’t deserve to jerk off.

He’s not even sure _why_ he’s fighting it. It’s a normal bodily function. And Quentin’s body is definitely not used to getting the kind of treatment it got last night. It’s only natural that he’s a little worked up. It’s just. Well, maybe if he can—valiantly—avoid jerking off about it, he can avoid it becoming a whole _thing_. 

Just because they’d kissed one time, albeit for uh, awhile, doesn’t mean anything else is going to happen. Eliot probably has great kisses with guys he thinks are cute all the time. One for every day of the week. He likes to flirt and benevolently bestow life-changing kisses on the less fortunate. If Quentin looked like him and kissed like him, well, that’s what he would do, too. It doesn’t _mean_ anything.

And, not for nothing, what’s the point in getting Julia all riled up? What if Quentin acts like a complete weirdo and embarrasses himself, trying to make last night into more than what it was? He knows Eliot will be kindly polite, which is actually the worst thing Quentin can imagine. 

And then there’s a fair chance he’ll have to spend the rest of his life sitting next to him at Julia’s dad’s dining room table during the holidays. Probably at some point, Eliot will get a devastatingly handsome European boyfriend named, like, Pierre, and they’ll fly in from their gorgeous house in the south of France to attend Thanksgiving dinner wearing coordinated outfits. 

Quentin will get relegated to sitting across from Eliot at that point, probably. Or maybe even to the kids’ table, which will exist, because by then, Julia and James will be married and have genetically perfect twins or something. 

Maybe, he thinks wildly, if he can just will himself to be not horny about it, what happened last night can stay a nice (okay, more than nice) moment that he doesn’t have to overthink or consider the implications of too much. 

But then again, wouldn’t jerking off actually _help_ in that regard? If he lets all the ah—thoughts and feelings build up, that’s just asking for trouble, right? Trying to avoid it will only make things worse in the long run. He can do it now, really quick, like ripping off a bandaid—or, um, not exactly like that, because he’s not really into having his dick like, punished in that way? He’s seen some weird shit online. Not that he makes a habit of looking for internet porn. But like, you know, sometimes you get curious and want to see what’s out there. 

Anyway, most of what was “out there” didn’t do it for him. Like, it just kind of felt creepy and exploitative to watch, and maybe he was theoretically interested in having his hair pulled, but did they have to be so _mean_ about it? 

_Eliot_ would probably know exactly what he—

Ugh. Yeah. He’s going to take care of this. And then he can move on. He can be normal. 

With an annoyed sigh, Quentin rolls onto his back, slides his hand into his boxer briefs, and lets himself think about Eliot’s mouth and hands and after all that build up, it’s over pretty quickly, honestly. He doesn’t even have time to work himself up to a more elaborate fantasy, which is a little disappointing after all the build-up; but embarrassingly, all he’d needed was to call up the the memory of Eliot’s mouth on his and basically a play-by-play of what had happened last night, only with the small addition of “what if he had crawled into Eliot’s lap and Eliot had grabbed his ass and Quentin had gotten to feel his dick, which was obviously big, right, he could just tell, pressed against him and—

Once he’s come—hard, like, harder than he can remember coming in awhile—he laughs at himself for being so dramatic. 

He’ll hang out with his dad and go eat pizza with Julia and James and then they’ll go back to the city and it’ll be time for finals. And who even knows when he’ll see Eliot next. Maybe Christmas. Maybe not. All he has to do is what Julia told him in the first place: be polite, but not overly friendly. He can do that. 

After that, lying around in bed starts to feel distinctly gross, so he drags himself to the bathroom to shower. He glances in the mirror and startles.

“Fuck.” 

He’d forgotten about the mark Eliot had very thoroughly left on his neck. And it’s a doozy. Like, the prototypical hickey. Of course, Eliot is skilled at this too. Why wouldn't’ he be. Has anyone actually given him a hickey before?

Yes, he remembers, his very first sort-of girlfriend back in high school. Her name was Georgia and they’d “broken up” after three weeks, if you can even call it that, when all they did was go to a few movies and also make out and do awkward hand stuff in the backseat of her Subaru in the parking lot after school. Georgia had given him his first hickey. Back then, Quentin had thought it was kind of weird. It was supposed to be hot, and it was supposed to be the kind of thing you wanted to do to each other when you were dating, but. Quentin thinks it had been more out of a sense of obligation than anything else, he and Georgia dutifully showing off to the rest of the school that yes, they were Getting Some. 

It hadn’t been like that, with Eliot. Quentin very gently touches the bruise and winces. Also, improbably and inconveniently, his dick twitches with interest. 

“Fuck,” he groans again, and quickly jumps in the shower, and washes his hair and then his body with brisk, efficient purpose. No lingering touches or daydreaming under the steaming hot spray. It’s a waste of water, anyway, to take long showers. He’s just doing his part to help the environment.

Downstairs, his dad is drinking coffee and doing a puzzle. Quentin grabs his own cup and zones out for a few hours, making slow but steady progress. He barely even thinks about Eliot the entire time. If every so often he finds himself brushing his fingers against the bruise on his neck—which his dad hasn’t commented on _thank god_ —and then pressing ever so gently until he feels it, then, well, that’s nobody’s business but his own. 

Eventually, his eyes start to water and his back starts to hurt, and there’s this one fucking piece he cannot find for the life of him, even though it should be completely obvious, and yeah, it’s time for a break. 

They have leftover turkey sandwiches for lunch and turn on _Planes, Trains & Automobiles_. 

“The best Thanksgiving movie of all time,” his dad declares. 

“I mean, what other Thanksgiving movies are there?” Quentin asks. “It’s not like there’s a lot of competition.”

Then he has to google it. Turns out, there are a few others, but some of the ones classified as Thanksgiving movies are more just about like, fall in general, and his dad ends up laughing at him when he says this calls the entire ranking system into question. 

It is a great movie, though. They watch it every year, and it’s always funny. Well. Almost every year. There had been a year or two in there where doing anything other than staring at the wall was a struggle and nothing in the world was funny. Not exactly the best recipe for a fun family holiday.

Anyway. This year, he’s feeling okay enough to be able to laugh at a goofy comedy with his dad, and that’s something. Plus, the ending packs such an unexpected emotional punch. 

Both he and his dad are surreptitiously wiping their eyes while the credits roll when Quentin’s phone buzzes. It’s Julia.

“Hey,” he says, in what he thinks is a completely normal nothing-to-see here type of voice.

“Hi,” Julia says, in what also seems like a completely normal nothing-to-see here type of voice, but with her, it’s hard to tell. Along with her quite frankly frightening powers of observation and deduction, to the point where it seems like can almost read minds sometimes, she can make her own thoughts completely unreadable. 

“Sorry I left early last night. I was kind of tired. Guess the lack of sleep this week caught up with me.” 

Wow, he’s pretty impressed with himself for keeping it so light and casual, honestly. He should win an award. 

“That’s okay. I wasn’t really in the mood anyway,” Julia says. No hint of any _by the way, I know exactly what you were doing last night you horny monster and I somehow also know you jerked off thinking about it this morning, too_ tone in her voice at all. 

“Is that Q? Hey Q!” James calls from the background. Then there’s a fumbling noise and he’s on the line instead of Julia. “Oh god, dude, you should’ve been here this morning for breakfast. Eliot made these cinnamon rolls, like, not the ones you pop out of the scary tube, but like, from scratch, and—” 

There’s a pause, and Quentin can imagine that Julia is giving James a look for daring to be overly impressed by Eliot’s cinnamon rolls, and James is also remembering what he saw the night before and how he’d promised not to mention it to Julia. 

Julia hates having things kept from her, just as much as she loves being proven right. But so far, James seems to be holding strong. 

“Anyway, they were pretty solid,” James concludes. 

“Cool,” Quentin says. Of course Eliot can bake in addition to everything else. Whatever. 

James puts Julia back on the phone, as he’s about to head out for a run. He’s taking it easy today, because of the holiday weekend. Only five miles, he says. No sweat. 

Quentin very casually asks what everyone else at the Wicker household was up to that day. Just like, you know, to be polite. It turns out Julia’s dad is golfing with some former colleagues at the law firm; they’re trying to get in as many games as possible before snow makes it impossible. And Emily and Eliot had gone shopping.

“Ugh, today of all days?” 

“I know. They invited me to join them, but no fucking thanks. Emily’s big on Christmas.” 

“Annoying,” Quentin comments as he gets up from his chair and heads up to his room. He personally likes the idea of a big family Christmas, as he’d never had one himself. He has one uncle and two cousins on his mom’s side, who he hardly ever saw growing up, and his dad’s only sister doesn’t have kids. 

Julia has a lot of aunts and uncles and cousins, but she doesn’t like any of them that much, save for one cousin named Aubrey, who is a few years older and the epitome of coolness, or at least she was the last time Quentin had seen her. She’d given Julia and Quentin their first joint, and one memorable late night, let them take turns driving her convertible around the deserted Blockbuster parking lot. Aubrey lives abroad now, in Portugal, the last time Quentin had checked, so she doesn’t make it home for the holidays that often.

So needless to say, Julia hasn’t been a big fan of Christmas, historically. Usually she would put in a few hours and then sneak out to come over to Quentin’s house and they’d put on the Fillory movie. The one from the 80s, _not_ the miniseries from the 2000s, which was an absolute abomination.

“Yeah, so I guess we’re spending Christmas with them too,” Julia sighs. “Like, thanks for asking, dad, but whatever. Emily wanted to get presents for everyone. Including you.” 

“Me? Oh, well. She doesn’t need to, but. That’s um. Nice of her.” 

Julia sighs again. “She’s always nice. It’s a little disturbing. And she was asking a lot of questions about you and your interests.” 

Quentin narrows his eyes. Is there something weird going on with her tone? Does she suddenly sound suspicious? Is he just being paranoid? 

“Uh huh. Well, makes sense. Typically when you buy someone a gift, it helps to have an idea of their likes and dislikes,” he says. 

“Yeah, the thing that I found really, hm, _interesting_ ,” Julia continues, and oh god, here it comes. “Is that Eliot seemed very interested in your likes and dislikes as well. He was not very subtly asking me about you all morning. _Does Quentin like cinnamon rolls? We’ll have to save one for him and you can warm it up in the oven later_. Oh, _speaking of Christmas gifts, what other baked goods does Quentin like? Would you say Quentin has a decent supply of nice sweaters? Asking for my aunt, of course_.” 

Quentin is starting to feel overheated. _Eliot was asking about him_. Does his dad need to keep the heat on so high? It must be ninety-fucking degrees in here. 

“Oh, well, you know,” he stammers. “Uh, I do like cinnamon rolls, I mean, who doesn’t, right? And he’s just helping his aunt out with her shopping. It’s um, always good to get a list going before you head out.” 

Eliot wants to buy him a nice sweater. That’s very normal. Quentin wonders wildly if Eliot buys nice sweaters for all the guys whose lives he ruins by kissing them, or just the ones he feels especially sorry for. 

“I guess you’re right,” Julia says, and Quentin slumps against his closed bedroom door in relief. “And all you did was talk to him for like five minutes.”

Fuck. He relaxed too soon. What does she mean by that? Is this her way of trying to get him to confess? Was that sarcasm? Does she _know_ that he actually did a lot more than talk, and for a lot longer than five minutes? Oh god, she’s been toying with him the entire time. He should’ve known better—

“He’s just one of _those_ types,” Julia continues. “You don’t even have to do anything and they think you’re obsessed with them. Like, what, he thinks he can just waltz in here with his cinnamon rolls and oh-so-thoughtful Christmas gifts and we’ll all just fall over ourselves?”

Hah. Yeah. Who would do that? Quentin paces back and forth at the foot of his bed. 

“Um, uh-huh,” he mumbles.

“But enough about him. Are you still up for pizza later? James has had three plates of leftovers already today but he said he could eat again whenever he’s back from his run.”

Quentin can practically hear her rolling her eyes. 

“Classic James,” he laughs. 

“Classic James,” Julia agrees. 

Pizza sounds so good. And it’s tradition. But he can’t go. Just talking to Julia on the phone had been nerve wracking enough. 

There is absolutely no way he is walking into that restaurant with his hickey on display. Unlike his dad, who, bless him, is absolutely oblivious to many things and hadn’t seemed to notice, Julia will hone in on it right away. And Quentin, for some reason, owns zero turtlenecks.

Well, he knows the reason. It’s because he looks like a complete idiot in turtlenecks. He always has. Some people can pull them off, and he is not one of those people. Eliot probably looks amazing in a turtleneck, Quentin suddenly thinks. Not to be weird, but just like, for example.

Quentin, especially with his longer hair, would look like a wannabe-French hipster in a turtleneck. And yeah, he _is_ a Philosophy major, but that’s just taking it a little far. 

Anyway. He could wear a scarf, keep it on the whole time, but he’s not a scarf wearer. He never has been He’s just not one of _those people_. Julia knows this. She’ll take one look at him and instantly know something’s up. She’d pulled that same move too often in high school, the whole ‘wearing a scarf indoors to hide a hickey’ thing. 

Quentin really loves to be reminded of all the times Julia was making out with guys who weren’t him while he pined pathetically for her. It’s really his favorite high school memory. Perfect. 

So, she’ll sniff out the deception immediately, James will definitely fold as soon as she applies pressure, and that will be that. What’s he going to do, claim that he left her house the night before and hooked up with a stranger on Tinder?

“Q?” Julia asks. “You still there?”

“Yeah, um, I just. I’m not feeling great? Actually? So I think I’ll skip the pizza. But you guys should go.” 

It’s not even a lie. He actually doesn’t feel great, when he contemplates keeping secrets from Julia, and missing out on their day after Thanksgiving tradition. He’s a shitty friend. He doesn’t deserve pizza. 

“Aw, no, really?” Julia says, and she sounds genuinely put out, which makes Quentin feel even worse. “Well. Okay, feel better. We’ll bring you the leftovers, how about that?”

“Yeah, that sounds good. Thanks, Jules. Have fun.”

They hang up, and Quentin flops down into his unmade bed. Part of him wants to call her right back, just blurt it all out and have it be over with. But the other part of him, the one that was at a fervor when he was a petulant twelve-year-old, insists that Julia is _not the boss of him_ , and he doesn’t have to like, confess his sins to her. 

And anyway, what has he even done that he needs to apologize for? He’s an adult and he kissed a guy. Big deal. It’s not like he fucked her boyfriend or something. 

And nope, okay, not going any further with that train of thought.

But really, it _was_ just one kiss. Wouldn't it be kind of weird for him to bring it up to Julia? What’s he supposed to do, call her back like, ‘hey Jules, guess what, I kissed Eliot and now I have a hickey?’ And then what? 

By this time next week Eliot won’t even remember his name, and he’ll be back at his school upstate. And _if_ Julia’s dad and Emily stay together, she, and Quentin by extension will have to see him like, a few times a year?

The thought of Eliot forgetting his name is enough to make Quentin’s stomach flip uncomfortably. He doesn’t mean it in a bad way; Eliot will go back to his world full of beautiful, classy people like him, and he can’t be faulted for Quentin being just a blip on the radar. It’s not his fault that Quentin will probably obsess over him, just a little, for a few years _at least_. That’s Quentin’s issue. 

But he’ll get over it. He will. It’s going to be fine and totally normal. Not weird at all. And Julia never has to know about it. He’s doing her a favor, really. She has enough to worry about. 

Quentin’s phone buzzes. 

He has a text. It’s from Eliot.

Heart pounding, he taps the notification.

_it’s lonely out here on the porch all by myself. waiting anxiously on that survey response. xo_

What the hell. 

Okay, so maybe this is going to get a little weird.

-

Once they’re back in the city, there isn’t really time to think about anything other than finals. Because Quentin, like an idiot, has chosen to major in two fields that are heavily writing-based, this means that while he doesn’t have to _study_ for an actual exam, he does have multiple papers due at the same time. And those papers require research and finding sources and oh yeah, it turns out after nearly four years at this that maybe he actually sucks at writing? 

Like, he doesn’t know how he passed his classes before this. His professors must have taken pity on him. He is clearly a moron who can barely string two sentences together. And yet they are going to give him a degree (two, no less) somehow. 

Julia is in the same boat in terms of her workload, but she remains mysteriously untouched by it all, at least on the surface. The only sign that she’s feeling any stress at all is the amount of chain smoking she’s doing out on the fire escape in the middle of the night.

James’ major is in the business school, and has something to do with like, data analytics and accounting or something Quentin can never quite understand. But it seems to revolve around doing a lot of complicated shit in Excel and maybe writing papers isn’t that bad after all. Better than pivot tables or whatever the hell James is always going on about. Then again, James is the one with a job lined up after he graduates and will probably make more money in a year than Quentin will in a decade, so maybe Quentin should’ve learned to develop a great passion for pivot tables. Fuck, what a depressing thought. 

“No worries, Q, I’ve got your back,” James had said once when Quentin had drunkenly lamented the fact that he would probably be forced to move back to Jersey with his dad after graduation. “Me and Jules are gonna move somewhere with more space, and that of course would include a room for you, too. Roomies forever!”

The thought of tagging along with James and Julia to their post-college grownup apartment, like—like some weird polyamory situation, except he’s not really in on the whole uh, “amory” part and instead is forever doomed to wear earplugs to bed, or risk hearing them fucking, and he can’t even cook or anything, so he’s really bringing nothing to the table at all…and when they had children, he’d be poor Uncle Quentin; be nice to him, kids, he’s very sad and lonely. Maybe moving back in with his dad would be preferable.

Anyway, James does have actual exams to study for and he’d laughed really hard when Quentin had asked how you take an exam in an Excel spreadsheet. It wasn’t _that_ funny, but okay. They’re all under a lot of stress.

So Quentin doesn’t really have time to think about Eliot at all. In fact, it’s almost like the whole thing at Thanksgiving never even happened—

Okay. That’s a lie. It’s true that there really isn’t time to think about Eliot. But Quentin somehow makes time. Time that should be spent on other things, like going back to all those places in his papers where he’d put [add source here] and actually uh, adding the source. Or trying to figure out what the fuck he meant by something scribbbed in the margin of his Philosophy notes that looks suspiciously like “don’t forget the dumplings.” 

It later turns out that it had nothing to do with philosophy, and was just him reminding himself what everyone wanted him to order for takeout the other night when he’d been on hold with the Chinese place.

Which Quentin maybe would’ve realized sooner if he hadn’t been so preoccupied about what Eliot was doing, if he was still in town or if he’d gone back to school, and obsessing over the long,elegant line of his throat as he’d titled his head back to blow a plume of smoke into the air that was somehow also elegant and dangerously appealing. 

Also, some not-so-light speculation about his dick. Maybe he jerked off a time or two, contemplating dropping to his knees and unzipping Eliot’s very nice pants and blowing him right

there as he sat on the porch swing. But he’s only human. And it’s not like he has other outlets for his very normal thoughts. 

Eliot himself is not helping matters, because he has, inexplicably, continued to send intermittent texts. Quentin had left him on read for a day or two after that last one about the porch being lonely—not in a rude way, but just, he genuinely had no response. What is someone possibly supposed to say to that?

Then, one evening when he’d been out having a smoke on the fire escape around sunset, taking a break from writing—well, really, staring at his computer screen trying to write, he’d impulsively taken out his phone, snapped a picture of the view in the golden light, typed out _it’s no porch swing but it’ll do_ and hit send. 

So, yeah, fine, maybe Eliot continuing to text him isn’t so inexplicable. Except for the whole thing where Eliot being interested in him at all has no reasonable explanation. 

But that picture had resulted in Eliot sending one of the view from his current location, which was, apparently, still in the city—his grad school must just be on some kind of schedule where he’s off from Thanksgiving until the new year—and Quentin had absolutely _refused_ to analyze it for more detail, like whether he could tell exactly where Eliot’s airbnb was, based on the landmarks in the photo. Nope. Not doing that. He refused.

He does not mention any of this to Julia. Which like, okay, he’s absolutely asking for trouble there. But it’s just texting. It hardly counts as real life. Plenty of text and online-based flirtations in Quentin’s past had quickly fizzled out when faced with the harsh reality of real life. Such as that one summer he’d gotten pretty hot and heavy, or what constituted hot and heavy at that age, with a girl in his class over facebook chat, and then when they’d come back to school in the fall, she acted like she barely knew who he was. 

Or that one time freshman year he had actually given in and briefly downloaded a dating app and matched with a guy who went to NYU. His name was Hunter. He was studying Psychology. They they had similar taste in books and movies, and he agreed with all of Quentin’s opinions on Fillory and Further, and said “it’s nice to talk to someone who actually has a sense of humor on this stupid app.”

Then they’d met up for coffee and it was like they were two different people. Hunter, who had seemed really smart and insightful on the app, came across as kind of pretentious and arrogant now. All of Quentin’s jokes, which had been so funny through text, fell flat in-person. There had been no spark whatsoever. And that had been that.

Which is all to say that Eliot is on a break from school, and maybe a little bored, and texting with Quentin is a low-stakes diversion. Probably. 

Julia is actually the one to bring up Eliot first. They’re on their way back to the apartment after an afternoon coffee run, and Julia’s phone buzzes in her pocket. She pulls it out to look, and then rolls her eyes. 

“Ugh,” she says, and shoves the phone away again. 

“What’s up?”

“Guess who just followed me on Instagram.” 

“Uh,” Quentin says after a sip of coffee. “Taylor Lautner.”

Julia actually stops walking and stares at him. _“Who_?” 

“The—you know, the guy from Twilight? Jacob?” Quentin says, forced to stop in his tracks also. “Isn’t that his name? All the girls had pictures of him in their lockers in high school.”

Julia shoves at his shoulder. “Jesus, Q. Update your celebrity references.” 

“Hey, careful, I’m carrying a hot beverage here,” Quentin complains. “So it’s not Taylor Lautner?”

“No, shockingly enough. Actually, it’s Eliot.” 

Quentin takes another sip of coffee as they continue walking. “Oh. Okay.”

“Yeah. I’m sure his aunt told him to make an effort with me,” Julia sighs. “My dad mentioned something similar on the phone the other day. Doesn’t look like they’re breaking up any time soon. And Christmas is still happening, I guess.”

“Are you going to um, follow him back?”

Not that he cares, particularly. It doesn't matter to him one way or another. 

Julia shrugs. “I don’t know. I guess. He probably has one of those really annoying accounts that are all like, super stylized photos with captions like ‘hashtag woke up like this.’ I mean, if anything, I can look at it and laugh.”

Quentin has no doubt that Eliot looks gorgeous when he wakes up. Not that he’d dream of saying this to Julia. Or well, anyone. 

“He hasn’t followed you?” Julia asks. 

“Uh, nope! Not that I know of. Definitely have not had any Instagram interactions with him.”

It’s technically one-hundred percent true. No communication has occurred via that particular method.

Quentin only has an Instagram because Julia forced him to sign up. He’s posted maybe a dozen times total. He hasn’t logged into it in months. 

Maybe he should. Just to take a peek—

No. Actually. He shouldn’t do that. There’s no need to add social media stalking to the equation. Thankfully, he doesn’t remember his password anyway.

He congratulates himself on making a mature decision.

This mature decision lasts about an hour. Then he “takes a break” from his paper and his first order of business on said break is to click the forgot password option on the Instagram app and have a link to create a new one sent to his email. 

He doesn’t have any new followers. It’s dumb to feel disappointed. 

The last post is from his birthday in July. Julia had made him pose for a picture with his cake, while wearing his dumb party hat, and then she’d taken his phone and posted it to his Instagram with the caption _I don’t know about you but I’m feelin’ 22!!!!_

So, yeah, that’s the kind of content Eliot is missing out on. Probably for the best. 

-

When Quentin has finally submitted his last paper for the semester, he manages to take off his shoes before flopping onto his bed and sleeping for fourteen hours straight. Somewhere in that time, Julia and James have also finished up their respective papers and exams, and are ready to blow off some steam.

Quentin’s version of blowing off steam apparently includes sending Eliot another dumb fire escape picture, captioned _end of the semester celebratory sunset (catch that alliteration...yeah I’m an english major)_. Eliot doesn’t respond. Who can blame him. 

With a month of winter break ahead, the possibilities are endless. So of course, they decide to go to the same bar they always go to. Which is perfectly fine with Quentin. The drinks are fairly reasonably priced for the area, it’s usually not overly crowded, and they make a surprisingly good margarita. 

At other bars, when Quentin tries to order a drink, he is roundly ignored by the bartenders, even if he’s the only one waiting, or someone cuts ahead of him in line. James and Julia have tried to say that it’s all about confidence, but Quentin’s pretty sure it’s all about being traditionally hot. 

Anyway, at their regular place, Quentin can usually just park himself in a booth and leave the drink fetching to the two traditionally hot and confident pros, or when he does have to venture up to the bar himself, the bartenders recognize him and take pity. 

It’s a little more crowded than usual, what with the end of semester celebrations, but they still manage to find a table and James heads up to the bar to put in an order. 

“We always say we’re going to come here on Wednesdays for Trivia Night and we never do it,” Julia comments. “Next semester?” 

“Yeah,” Quentin shrugs. “I’m free like, whenever. You guys are the ones with social lives, not me.”

James returns with their drinks, a round of margaritas to get them going, and they raise their glasses and cheers to another set of classes in the books. They made it through the second-to-last semester of their college career, James points out dramatically. 

“Penultimate,” Quentin and Julia say at the same time.

“Sure,” James agrees. 

They clink glasses, they drink. Their favorite bartender, Paulina, is working tonight, and she’s always extremely generous with her liquor pours. Quentin winces and then shivers a little as the tequila slides down his throat. 

Julia and James start to discuss holiday plans; James’ mom will kill him if they don’t come for Christmas Eve, at least, and of course there’s Julia’s dad to consider. Her mom had given a half-hearted invitation to come down to Florida, which Julia had whole-heartedly declined. 

Quentin has no idea what his own plans are, doesn’t even know if his mom is going to be in town, and while he’s sure James _would_ invite him along to his parents’ house, Quentin is absolutely not that desperate. So he really has nothing to contribute to the conversation, but that’s okay. He has a drink and it’s nice to sit back and let the noise of the bar wash over him. 

He’s just starting to get a nice buzz when he hears a familiar voice over his shoulder. 

“Julia? James? Wow, what a coincidence!” 

Quentin sets his mostly empty glass on the table. He doesn’t turn around. Instead, he looks at Julia, who’s look of surprise turns on a dime to a pleasant smile. Someone who hasn’t known her since she was eight would have every impression of sincerity.

“Hi, Eliot.”

“Hey there,” James says, and then adds, “Quentin’s here, too.”

Thanks, James.

“Hi—” Quentin starts to reply as he twists around to look behind him, and wow, yeah, that’s Eliot, standing there in his tan-colored coat and those annoyingly hot boots and looking just as hot as hot as Quentin remembers, unfortunately. And he’s looking down at Quentin and smiling. 

Whatever he’s about to say is completely drowned out when a gorgeous girl in a pink coat and knee-high boots with perilously tall heels appears at Eliot’s side with a drink in each hand. 

“Okay, so some guy named Zach paid for these. He was like, _hey hot stuff, can I buy you a drink_ , and I was like, nah. And he was being such a twat about it, just would _not_ let it go, all _oh no, I insist, beautiful ladies like you should never have to pay for your own drinks._ So I said well gee, okay, I accept, if you buy one for my friend, too. Not my fault he assumed my friend was some other hot chick standing next to me who I’ve never seen before in my life. I think he’s still over there trying to figure it out, poor thing. Anyway, cheers to Zach.” 

She hands Eliot a glass, raises her own, and takes a sip. 

“So what’s up?” she asks, taking in the scene before her. “You find some people interested in a fivesome already?”

“Bambi,” Eliot says through his laughter. “This is Julia, James, and Quentin. Everyone, this is Bambi, or as she’s known to the rest of the undeserving public, Margo.”

The three of them all say some version of “hello” or “hi” at the same time, so it all comes out a garbled mess. Bambi/Margo’s eyes light up and she edges her way past Eliot and slides into the booth next to Quentin. 

“So _these_ are the people I’ve been hearing so much about,” Margo drawls. “El mentioned that you might live around this area. _What_ a lovely surprise. Oh, you don’t mind if we join you for a bit, right?” 

She blinks innocently at them with wide brown eyes and long lashes, and Quentin instantly understands where the _Bambi_ name came from. 

Now that she’s already sitting, she knows very well that they can’t really refuse, and they all know that she knows this.

“Oh no, please,” Julia says, and gestures for Eliot to sit as well, and after some _oh, are you sure, we don’t want to intrude_ posturing on his part, they’re all crammed into the booth together.

Great. This is fine. Quentin takes a fortifying gulp of his margarita and despairs that it’s almost gone. James is in a similar boat and they give each other commiserating glances across the table. 

“This doesn’t really seem like your kind of place,” Julia comments to Eliot. 

“Oh? Well we were just in the neighborhood and thought we’d stop in for a bit of the authentic city college kid experience,” Eliot smiles. “And I think you may be misjudging me a bit, Dear Julia. I contain multitudes. 

Julia rolls her eyes. “I bet.”

Then she turns her attention to Margo.

“So,” Julia says. “What exactly have you heard from Eliot? About me, I mean.”

Eliot clears his throat. 

Margo takes a delicate sip of her drink and gives Julia another one of those innocent-looking blinks. “Just that your dad is dating his Aunt Emily—don’t you just love her, by the way? Such a hoot. And that you were _so kind_ to welcome El into your family’s home on Thanksgiving.” 

Julia tilts her head and smirks. 

“Oh come on,” she says in a faux whisper as she leans forward. “Just between us girls. I know he said more than that.” 

Margo shakes her head and gives a sly smile back. She drums her shiny nails, painted a deep red, on the table top. 

“Hm, maybe. But that’s privileged information. I _can_ say that he mentioned you have amazing hair, which, _check_ , and quite the collection of cute guys around you at all times, which…” 

She turns her gaze to James, who looks awed by her entire existence. Not that Quentin really blames him. Julia rolls her eyes. 

“Mhmm, _check_.” 

Margo nods approvingly and then shifts on the seat so she’s facing Quentin directly. 

“And _this one_ ,” she says, looking him up and down, not unlike Eliot had done a few weeks before. “You are just the _epitome_ —” 

“Oh, look, you all could use refills,” Eliot interrupts. “Next round’s on me. What are you having?” 

Quentin’s not sure if he’s relieved or disappointed to not know what he is the apparent _epitome_ of. 

James offers to go with him up to the bar to carry all the drinks back. So that leaves Quentin alone with Margo and Julia, who thankfully have decided to ignore him, in favor of sizing each other up. 

“So you go to school with Eliot?” Julia asks.

“Yep, met him my first day there. And thank fuck for that. Some days he’s the only thing keeping me from losing it completely and burning that place to the ground.” 

“Oh, so it’s tough then?” Your uh, _performing arts_ program?” Julia smiles sweetly.

“Jesus, Jules,” Quentin mutters under his breath. 

Margo blinks and then purses her lips in clear amusement. “Yep, it’s a bitch. Moved all the way across the country for it, though. Only program of its kind in the U.S.” 

Julia nods and raises her eyebrows. “Wow. Impressive. Moved from where exactly?” 

“Los Angeles. Went to undergrad at UCLA. In case you thought I didn’t have any experience sitting on my ass reading books at an elite overpriced school,” Margo counters with a grin. 

Quentin feels like he’s watching a tennis match between two elite players, equally matched.

“Wow, you grew up in L.A. and you still wanted to go into acting? Isn’t that like, what everyone does there? Kind of cliche, don’t you think?” 

Margo scoffs into her glass as she downs the last mouthful of her drink. “First of all, there’s a lot more to it than acting, honey. And hm, I feel like a more appropriate example of a cliche would be something like, ‘oh, you’re from New Jersey? Are you in the mafia?’” 

Julia’s mouth twitches into an almost smile. “Even if I was, I would never speak against the family.”

Margo almost laughs. 

They look at each other and seem to share a moment of understanding that Quentin isn’t privy to. Girls are so mysterious sometimes. 

Eliot and James return with the drinks at that moment. 

“Hey Jules,” James says, as he passes the drinks around the table. “Eliot asked if I play pool. I said nope, not at all, but I know somebody who does.”

It’s actually funny how bad James is at pool. It seems like his hand-eye coordination skills should translate over in some way, but they just…don’t. Quentin is surprisingly decent, for whatever reason. Go figure. 

Julia raises her eyebrows at Eliot as she takes a sip of her margarita. “You play?”

“A little,” Eliot says with a shrug and a small smile. He sips his own drink. 

Somehow the way he says _a little_ manages to sound like a very polite brag.

Julia’s eyes are gleaming. She grew up with a pool table in the basement. There had also been a pinball machine and a bar, complete with a mini-fridge that was always stocked with glass bottles of Coke. As a kid, Quentin had thought this was all the coolest and fanciest thing imaginable. He still kind of does, actually. 

But while Quentin had mostly been in it for the sugary drinks and the bar stools you could spin around on, and it _was_ fun to hear that satisfying clack of the pool balls knocking against each other when you hit them with the cue, Julia had taken learning to play seriously. It was one of her few bonding activities with her dad. It wasn’t too long before she was better than he was, which made him proud. 

Julia regularly fleeced unsuspecting guys for their money here in this very bar. It was always funny to watch them realize they’d been played. Her pool skills had paid for many a night of drinking. 

Quentin knows that beating Eliot at a game of pool is a very appealing prospect to Julia. She loves to win and she especially loves to win against people she wants to take down a peg or two. 

“Well,” she says. “You up for it?”

Eliot grins. “Oh, I’m up for pretty much anything.” 

His eyes flicker across the table to meet Quentin’s, just for a second. 

Then, he’s standing up and holding his hand out to Julia. “Shall we?” 

She looks at him, back down at his proffered hand, and then back up at him. 

“Get ready to have your ass kicked,” she says, and reaches out and places her hand in Eliot’s outstretched one. 

James jumps up too, eager to watch; he thinks Julia’s pool skills are “super hot.”

Quentin wouldn’t mind getting a closer look at the proceedings, but Margo places a hand on his arm and says, “You all go ahead and enjoy your little game. Quentin and I are going to get better acquainted.”

“Be nice, Bambi,” Eliot warns, and she gives him a sunny smile in return.

“I’m always nice, El. Now, go on. Scoot. Remember, mommy’s proud of you, win or lose.”

She blows him a kiss and then turns back to Quentin with a truly terrifying smile on her face. The rest of the gang heads over to stake their claim on a pool table.

“ _Now_ ,” she says. “Quentin Coldwater. Is that really your name?”

“Why do people always ask me that?” Quentin sighs. “ _Yes_ , it’s my real name.” 

Margo scoffs. “Prove it.”

“How—how am I supposed to _prove_ it?” 

“Show me your driver's license,” she demands. She holds out her hand expectantly, like she doesn’t even consider that he would disobey. 

Quentin takes a gulp of his margarita and sighs. “Um, actually, I never got my driver’s license? Just a learner’s permit.”

“Ooh, am I to understand this fine establishment is serving you _alcohol_ without checking ID first?” Margo asks with faux concern. 

“Jesus, I have a state ID, and like, they know me here by now, but if you really want to see it—”

He’s about to reach into his messenger bag for his wallet, when Margo laughs and puts her hand over his on the table. 

“Calm down, I’m just fucking with you. I don’t need to see your _state ID_. I’m not the goddamn cops. I’ll take your word for it, Coldwater.”

Quentin can see why she and Eliot get along so well. Both of them somehow know exactly what to do to get him riled up. Although with. Slightly different results. 

“You’d have been fucked in L.A. though. You need a license or you’re trapped in your boring-ass suburb. I got mine the day I turned sixteen,” she says.

“Ugh,” Quentin rolls his eyes. “Well, that’s fine, because I’d die before I’d move there.”

Margo raises her eyebrows.

“I mean. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to insult your hometown, or whatever. It’s just like, you know not for me. Although, um, I’m sure it has many wonderful—” 

“Jesus Mary and fuckin’ Joseph, you are a trip. Relax. I’m not insulted. It’s a shithole, but, ya know. It’s home,” she shrugs.

Isn’t that the truth.

“Hell yeah!” James whoops from across the bar.

Quentin glances over Margo’s shoulder to see him holding up his hand to Julia for a high five. 

Eliot says something and James (not surprisingly) and Julia (more surprising) both laugh. Maybe this will turn out to be a bonding activity for them. 

Now it’s Eliot’s turn, and Quentin can’t help but stare. He’s so focused, his eyes on the table as he saunters around looking for the best angle. Then he’s leaning down and lining up for his shot and his hands look so strong and steady on the cue, and he has his shirt sleeves rolled up so Quentin can see his wrists and forearms and—

“Ahem.” 

Quentin startles and guiltily shifts his eyes away from the scene behind Margo to focus on Margo herself, who is shaking her head.

“Oh boy,” she sighs. “He did a number on you already, huh?” 

“Um, I don’t know what you—I mean, who?” 

Margo shakes her head. “Honey. Don’t forget who you’re talking to. I know that look. That is the tell-tale face of a guy who is desperate to get dicked down by a certain Mr. Tall-Hot-and-Charming.” 

Great. So he’s just another loser. God knows how many guys just like him there are, or have been. Margo said it herself. She sees it all the time. Is that why she wanted to talk to him alone? To let him down easy? 

He glares down at the table and takes another generous sip of his drink. 

“Hey, don’t get all grumpy,” Margo cajoles him with a shake to his arm. “He likes you. Believe me, I wouldn’t even know your name if he didn’t.”

Quentin’s heart, pathetically, jumps in his chest.

He’s not sure what he’s supposed to…do with that information. 

“Um, I could use another drink. Do you want one? Here, I’ll go up and get it, it’s on me.”

He fumbles in his bag for his wallet and slides out of the booth on the empty side. 

Margo is giving him an amused and knowing look, because of course it’s completely obvious that he’s desperate for any excuse to get out of their conversation, but she just says, “Well aren’t you a gentleman. Vodka soda. With lime, please.” 

He makes sure not to glance over at the pool tables and heads to the bar. He has to push past a big group of obviously-frat guys, who are blocking most of the space. He manages to squeeze in, and thankfully, Paulina spots him right away.

“Hey, babe. Whatcha need?”

He gives his order and she nods. 

“Comin’ right up.”

When she brings his drinks over a couple minutes later, she nods towards Margo. “You here on a date?”

A _date_? With _Margo_?

“Oh, um, no, she’s. A friend. Everybody else is over playing pool,” he says, gesturing in that general direction.

“Too bad. She’s hot,” Paulina grins. 

“Yeah, uh, she’s way out of my league,” Quentin says as he sets several dollar bills on the counter for a tip and takes a drink in each hand.

Paulina makes a tsking noise. “Aw, come on now. Don’t sell yourself short. I wouldn’t kick you out of bed for eating crackers.”

“Um. Thanks, Paulina,” he mumbles. “Well. Anyway, I better get back—” 

So okay, Paulina thinks he’s hot? Kind of? Huh. Who knew. He’s learning all kinds of things tonight.

Back at the booth, Margo is scrolling on her phone. She looks up as Quentin takes a seat and slides her drink across the table. 

“Thanks,” she says. “Do you carry that thing everywhere? Gonna whip out your laptop because you have a final paper you’re waiting to submit at the last minute?”

Quentin is currently sliding his wallet back into his bag, so he assumes that’s what she’s referring to. 

“Uh, I mean, yeah, I take it most places. And not tonight, but uh, I’ve done homework at the bar before.”

Margo laughs. “Okay, me too, actually. Had to have a social life and maintain my 4.0 somehow. And really, how’s it any different than doing it at Starbucks?”

“Cheers to that,” Quentin says.

They raise their glasses in the air and drink. 

“Actually though, um. I usually just have a book. I tend to uh, get bored at social events. Or ignored. Or both.” 

He expects Margo to laugh or worse, show pity for his status as an antisocial weirdo, but instead, she just nods. 

“Most people are incredibly boring,” she agrees. “So what do you have in there right now?”

Quentin hesitates.

“Oh come on. How bad could it be? Ooh, is it _erotica_? Now you have to show me.”

“ _No_ , it’s not—okay, fine, look—”

He reaches into his bag, fishes out the book inside, and hands it over to Margo.

It's a battered paperback version of _The World in the Walls_. Not the first edition, which he keeps safe at home. He probably has three or four copies of every Fillory book. This one makes for easy transportation and can stand to get beaten up a little. 

Margo’s whole face lights up. She holds the book carefully, even though it’s clearly already seen better days. 

“I _loved_ these books as a kid,” she breathes. “Oh, wow. It’s been…I don’t know, awhile, since I last read them, but. I still remember every detail.”

Okay, that’s…not what Quentin was expecting. 

“Really?” he asks. 

“Yes, _really_. Don’t let my stunning physique and my sparkling personality fool you. I was a complete bookworm,” Margo says, as she flips open the book to the first page. “I also watched the movie like, at least once a week. I was so mad when that piece of shit miniseries came out. An absolute fuckin’ tragedy.”

“God, thank you,” Quentin practically yells. He scoots closer to her on the bench. “I went out with a guy on a few dates sophomore year, and he _claimed_ to be a Fillory fan but then when I mentioned the miniseries he said it was ‘better than that old boring movie.’” 

Margo wrinkles her nose. “Ew. I hope you dumped him immediately.” 

“Uh, well, I think it was mutual, but yeah. That was coincidentally the last date. Oh, also, he kept going on about how Jane sucks as a protagonist, and I was like, uh, okay, clearly you don’t even understand the books, so.”

“Good riddance,” Margo nods. “El’s never read the books—I know—but I showed him the movie and the miniseries and he said the miniseries was _pretty fun_. He’s like the only person I’d allow to get away with that kind of blasphemy. Just so you’re fully aware of the person you’re crushing on.”

Eliot. Right. Wow. Somehow, Quentin had forgotten about him in the last few minutes. Of course he’s not a Fillory fan. That would’ve just been like, too much. 

He figures there’s no point in trying to deny the part about him having a crush. Margo’s got his number there. And she’s intimidating, but for some reason, Quentin doesn’t feel uncomfortable around her, like he does most new people. She keeps him on his toes, yeah, but she’s so obviously just teasing that it doesn’t bother him. 

“Well. Nobody’s perfect,” he shrugs. 

“We’ll let it slide,” she agrees. “Okay, so, back to the important stuff: Rupert was clearly gay, right?” 

Holy shit, this is the best day of Quentin’s life. Okay, that’s a bit of an exaggeration, but he’s on his third margarita, and well, it’s rare to find another Fillory fan, let alone one who wants to converse about his favorite topic of analysis. He’s talked Julia’s ear off about it, but it’s been such a long time since he’s met a _new_ person to do this with. 

“Oh my god, yes. It’s so interesting, I actually wrote a whole paper about that last year, in one of my lit classes—” 

They go back and forth about it for awhile, and then turn to the subject of which book is their favorite, then which book is the _best_ —not necessarily the same thing, they agree—and then Margo mentions that as a kid, she used to pretend to be an ambassador to the Outer Islands. It’s such an interestingly specific thing to choose, it makes Quentin feel like he now knows something very personal and special about Margo.

“Yeah, Julia and I would pretend to go to Fillory all the time, only we’d be Jane and Martin. Really original, I know. She’s the one who first told me about the books, actually. We had this map we made with crayons, on the underside of this table at her house. It turned out to be some antique that may have belonged to like, Paul Revere or some shit. God, her mom was so mad when she found it. I was terrified but Julia was just like, _whatever mother, it’s under the table, who’s ever going to see it_?” 

Margo laughs and they both look over at the pool table, where the battle is still raging on. 

Obviously, they must have decided to make it a best out of whatever match by now; a single game doesn’t take this long to play. While both Julia and Eliot’s expressions are serious, and James looks on edge, there has been any yelling or fighting, and they’re still playing, so things must be going okay.

A small crowd has gathered around the table. Apparently their play is impressive enough to warrant attention beyond James, Julia’s built-in cheering section. 

Margo is staring contemplatively at the scene. 

“Hm,” she says. “Julia. She sure is something. I mean, Eliot told me about her, and I was kind of prepared, but.”

“Tell me about it,” Quentin nods. “She is something, that’s for sure.” 

They both watch in silence for a second. James is standing behind Julia and massaging her shoulders and giving her what is surely a classic James pep talk, complete with a bunch of mixed metaphors and sports imagery. 

“And James, he’s cute.” 

Quentin clears his throat. “Uh. Yeah. He is.”

“They’ve been together awhile, huh?” Margo asks. She sips her drink.

“Mm. Like three-ish years, I think,” Quentin says vaguely, as though he doesn’t remember the exact day they went on their first date, effectively crushing his hope of Julia suddenly falling in love with him even though she’d failed to do so in high school, and beginning his torment of not only actually liking James, but liking him a little too much. (It was September 17th). 

Margo is tapping her nails on the table and biting her lip. 

“Alright,” she says after a moment. “I think I might be in the mood for some pool after all. Let’s see if I can’t show your control freak bestie and her hunky mascot a good time.”

“She’s not—” Quentin immediately jumps to Julia’s defense even though, well, he’s definitely called her that, to her face no less, once or twice in his life. He has no opinion either way about James being referred to as a hunky mascot. 

“Oh, coming from me that’s a compliment. Takes one to know one,” Margo grins at him. She stands up and ruffles his hair. “You’re cute. Really just like, total Eliot catnip.”

Then she’s walking over to the pool table and calling, “Hey, El. I play winner?” 

Quentin gets up, too, and trails after her.

Eliot glances up from where he’s surveying the table. From the looks of it, he could win on this turn. He only has one ball left to—what do they call it in pool again? Sink? Pot? It’s something like that. Quentin can never remember all the terms and mixes them up with basketball. 

“Fine with me,” Eliot says. “We’re all tied up with games, so this one will decide it.”

He looks over at Julia, who shrugs. “Sure, why not?”

Margo turns around and winks at Quentin.

And then, Eliot calls his shot, and lines up. After a few moments, he draws back the cue, and takes it. The arc of the ball is perfect. There's no way he’s going to miss—and then, at what seems like the last second, the ball veers slightly left, and knocks the eight ball into the pocket instead. 

The crowd groans. Julia does a complicated fist pump and dance move, and then high fives James. 

Quentin frowns. That shouldn’t have been possible. He was staring right at it the whole time, and while good players can get the balls to curve on particular shots, Quentin’s never seen anything quite like that. It’s almost like the ball had magically changed direction—but obviously, that’s crazy. Nobody else seems to have noticed anything weird. And besides, even if it were possible, why would Eliot purposefully lose?

But then, why had Margo winked at him? It’s like she’d _known_ somehow—okay, he really needs to stop obsessing over this. It was probably just a weird trick of the light or he was looking at it from a weird angle. Also, the tequila. 

“Good game,” Julia says, and holds out her hand for a shake. 

Eliot takes it and smiles gracefully. “You too. I gave it my all, but the best woman won.” 

The Julia v. Margo match is set to begin just as soon as everyone gets fresh drinks. Eliot decides a round of congratulatory shots is in order, on him. Great. More tequila. 

Quentin is definitely feeling it by this point. And by “feeling it” he means that everything is kind of funny and the Christmas lights hanging around the bar look really nice and make him feel peaceful, and Margo is so cool and nice, he’s so glad he met her. And Eliot is hotter than ever and Quentin just wants to—

He needs some water. And suddenly, Eliot is at his side, holding two glasses of water. Quentin glares up at him suspiciously. Is Eliot a mind reader? Oh god, he hopes not. 

“Hydration is key,” Eliot says. He holds one of the glasses out to Quentin. 

They’re still hanging around the edges of the designated pool area, where Margo and Julia are beginning their game. Julia seems to be feeling the effects of the tequila as well. She’s giggling and keeps having to reset as she tries to take her shot. Margo must have said something really funny; James is bent over laughing and clutching at her shoulder. 

“Seems like they’re having a good time,” Eliot comments as they sip their water.

“So is Margo any good? At pool, I mean.” 

Eliot huffs out a laugh. “Margo is good at countless things. And yeah, she’ll give Julia a run for her money.”

What are the chances that Quentin would end up being friends with multiple people who are so good at pool—well, one friend and some acquaintances? Are Eliot and Margo his friends? He literally just met Margo tonight, and Eliot is…a guy he made out with one time and has exchanged some flirtatiously-tinged text messages with.

“Where’d you learn to play?” he asks, instead of pondering out loud whether there’s a word for your best friend’s dad’s girlfriend’s nephew who you are on a friendly basis with but have kissed once and want to kiss again, even though you probably shouldn’t.

Eliot pauses. 

“Back home,” he finally says. “There was…this one shitty bar in my whole shitty little town. Nobody gave a shit about the legal drinking age, so even though I was sixteen, maybe seventeen, they let me in. Even served me drinks sometimes if no one was looking. Beer is revolting but I was bored. And, well. Free alcohol.” 

“The most exciting thing to American teenagers,” Quentin agrees. 

Shit, he remembers the times Julia had raided Mackenzie’s secret liquor stash and she and Quentin had gamely suffered through a six pack of Smirnoff Ice, just because it was there. 

“It certainly beat getting bullied by the lowlifes on the football team at school. At least the bar lowlifes mostly minded their own business.” Eliot is staring into the distance as he talks, like he’s recalling something that happened a long time ago. “So I learned to play pool. Even managed to hustle some unsuspecting guys and win a little cash.” 

“That’s kind of fun,” Quentin ventures. “Or…not?” 

The combination of the water and the conversation topic has made Quentin feel a little less giddily tipsy. 

Eliot smiles, but it’s just a small quirk of his lips. “I think it was maybe the only time my dad was proud of me, when he heard about it.”

“Oh,” Quentin says. It feels dumb to say he’s sorry, even though he is. But there’s clearly a lot more going on here than Eliot is saying, and Quentin knows that a relative stranger saying sorry about this kind of thing, _family stuff_ , is meaningless. 

“That’s neither here nor there, but,” Eliot shrugs. “Yeah. It was fun. Until the owner’s grandson was visiting from the next town over. Or maybe it was his nephew. But the important part is that he was around my age, and he was cute, and I guess must have thought I was cute enough.” 

“No! Shut up!” 

That’s Julia. Margo is whispering something in her ear. They’re both looking over at James, who is back over at the bar, and laughing. Quentin isn’t even sure if they’ve completed a game yet. Julia’s competitive edge seems to have been sated for now. 

“Sorry,” Quentin says. “You were saying?”

“Oh. I mean, that was pretty much it. Turns out the local bar owner doesn’t like it when he catches his teenage grandson or nephew or whatever, making out with another boy in the back seat of a car. And thus, I was banned from returning to the bar, my dad confiscated all my pool money that I’d been saving up as punishment, and I had to rejoin the drama club for something to do after school.”

Jesus. No wonder Eliot was happy to get out of there and go live with his Aunt Emily. Quentin always wanted to move away too, but in a lot of ways, he was lucky.

“What an asshole. The bar guy _and_ your dad,” Quentin says. “And that was in…Iowa?

Another pause, where it seems like Eliot is carefully considering his next words. 

“Indiana.” 

“Oh, sorry. I mean, I’m sure they’re uh, unique in their own way, and I don’t mean to generalize—”

Eliot smiles, a real one this time. “Don’t be sorry. They’re both garbage. The Midwest is corn fields and boring little towns. Well, and Chicago. That’s an outlier. Other than that though…it all blends together. I was thrilled to leave.” 

Quentin can’t say he’s really given much thought to that part of the country either way. The flyover states. Isn’t that what they’re called? Kind of rude, in his opinion. But he’s never wanted to live anywhere but New York. 

“I get that. I couldn’t wait to move out and come to the city. I’d been dreaming about it since I was a kid. I mean, I’m sure you had no concept of New Jersey before you moved up here. Why would you?” Quentin says. 

“Can anyone truly have a real concept of New Jersey?” Eliot asks. 

Quentin laughs more than is probably appropriate. But again, the tequila.

“But no, actually,” Eliot grins, “I was very aware of New Jersey. As a concept.”

“Oh god,” Quentin groans. “I’m sorry. It sucks.”

“It was a positive association,” Eliot assures him. 

“Ugh, _The Sopranos_ or _Garden State_?” Quentin asks. 

It’s always one of those. Quentin never wants to hear another word about either one.

“Neither. My dad went on a rant about how he hates Bruce Springsteen because he’s a _commie liberal_ in his oh-so eloquent words, so of course I had to look into this guy. I was determined to like whatever my dad didn’t like, and vice versa. But thankfully, Bruce is really hot.”

Quentin rolls his eyes.

“What?” Eliot laughs. “You’re not a fan? Isn’t that like, illegal for Jersey residents?”

“Um, well first of all, I don’t technically live there anymore? But. It’s like, whatever. Not my thing. Maybe I just like to be contrary,” Quentin shrugs.

Eliot glances at him and smiles. “Oh, I don’t doubt that you like to be contrary. It’s very charming.”

Quentin shrugs, his face flushed. 

“Well,” Eliot continues, “For someone who spent his entire life wanting to move out of Jersey, I’d think you and Bruce would be kindred spirits. Replace New Jersey with Indiana and I was right there with him.”

“Yeah, he wouldn’t shut up about it, and then he did finally move away, and guess what? He moved back. That’s a quitter mentality.”

He didn’t think it was _that_ funny but Eliot disagrees. 

“Plus,” Quentin continues through Eliot’s laughter. “All his songs are like, _I lost my job at the factory and my brother got beat up by some guys out by the railroad tracks and I have to marry my pregnant girlfriend out of obligation_. It’s like, a bummer?” 

This just makes Eliot laugh even harder. Well, it’s just the truth. Quentin’s heard enough to be able to say this with some confidence. 

“You’re not wrong,” he says, when he’s finally calmed down enough to talk. “But he has some romantic and sexy ones, too. I’ll have to play them for you sometime.”

It’s a clear invitation, and Quentin’s fingers slip on his water glass, which has gone dewy with condensation. 

“Um,” he says. “Well. Okay. But only if we can mix it up with Taylor Swift.”

“Deal,” Eliot agrees, and he reaches out to brush his hand against Quentin’s back, just for a second. It’s the first time they’ve touched tonight, or at all, since—

Quentin needs another drink. Or maybe he doesn’t. Maybe he needs to drink about three more glasses of water and walk home and go to bed. There’s a charged vibe in the area between him and Eliot, the buzz of anticipation, like anything could happen. 

Julia seems to have completely forgotten he’s here. She’s relaxed, having fun, dancing along to the Britney song that just started playing on the jukebox. Quentin could probably make out with Eliot right here and no one would even notice.

“Um, do you think we could like, go sit down?” Quentin mumbles. 

Not to sound like a Victorian lady with the vapors, but his knees had gone a little weak at that thought. 

Eliot frowns with concern and leads him over to their table with a hand low on his back, which is really nice, but also does not help matters at all. 

“You okay?” he asks when they’re both settled back in the booth.

Now Eliot is concerned for his health, like he’s a sick elderly relative. Very hot. 

“Yep, just uh, you know, peachy.” 

Eliot’s foot finds his under the table and gently nudges. 

“Good. Glad to hear it.”

They each acquire another glass of water—Quentin is done with tequila for the night and Eliot apparently doesn't want to drink alone—and talk about nothing in particular: how they’d both always wanted to move to New York when they “grew up,” that _The Princess Bride_ is the one movie they can both agree is a timeless classic, and how Quentin hates bowling because of the time he got his fingers stuck in the ball holes.

He doesn’t even know how that came up, or why he’s mentioning it.

“You know, I don’t tell a lot of people that story,” he laughs. “Julia always jokes about my _trauma_. But it was pretty embarrassing.” 

Eliot looks thoughtful. “You know, I—I don’t tell a lot of people I’m from Indiana. I actually didn’t even tell Margo until I’d known her for a few months.”

“Really?”

Quentin feels warm all over at the thought that somehow _he_ , of all people, is special in this way. It doesn’t make sense, but—it’s like he and Eliot have known each other a lot longer than they actually have. 

“Mmhm. I guess you and Julia already had some idea, because of my aunt, but. I try to leave people with the impression that I grew up somewhere interesting and vaguely exotic instead. I didn’t like who I was there. So I said fuck it.”

Quentin nods. He thinks he’d like Eliot no matter what, but he gets it.

“Well. Thanks for uh…trusting me, with that.”

“Thanks for trusting me with your bowling ball trauma,” Eliot says, and then they’re just smiling at each other, and in the distance, Julia and James and Margo are doing something something that looks suspiciously like body shots now, and Eliot could be over there doing that too; it’s what the cool, hot people do at bars, right? But somehow, Eliot would rather sit here with him and talk. 

Eventually, Eliot excuses himself to the restroom, and Quentin sits there by himself. He stares straight ahead for what feels like a long time but is probably only about thirty seconds. Then, before he really has processed what he’s doing, he’s up out of his seat and walking towards the back of the bar.

This place has a few single-use bathrooms instead of a communal one with a lot of stalls, which is a pain when there’s a line, but they’re always decently clean, for a bar, and right now, it’s helpful. Only one of the bathroom doors is closed.

Quentin knocks. 

“Just a minute,” Eliot calls. 

Oh god. Fuck. What is he doing? This is crazy. He really shouldn’t—

“It’s me. I mean, it’s Quentin,” he calls back.

He hears the running of a faucet and then what sounds like the paper towel dispenser, and then, a lock is clicking, the door is opening, and Eliot is peeking out and blinking at him. 

“Hi? Are you okay—”

Quentin pushes the door open the rest of the way and pushes himself inside. 

He backs against it and reaches behind himself to turn the lock. 

“Hi,” he says. “So I was thinking…”

Eliot is staring at him with raised eyebrows. 

“You were thinking?”

Quentin nods. 

“Um,” mumbles, So—”

And then he leans up and presses a kiss to Eliot’s mouth. 

Eliot freezes. He’s not kissing back.

Absolutely mortified, Quentin pulls away, and brushes his hair behind his ears with both hands. 

“I mean, sorry, if you’re not into it, that’s totally fine, I shouldn’t have assumed—” 

And then Eliot is backing him up against the door and tipping his chin up and capturing his mouth in a bruising kiss. 

Quentin moans, with relief and also something else. Eliot uses this opportunity to get his tongue in his mouth, and okay, yes, this _is_ just as good as Quentin remembers it. This is both reassuring and terrifying. _How_ is it so good?

“Been thinking about this all night,” Eliot says, when he finally pulls away to let Quentin up for air. 

“Yeah. Yeah, me too,” Quentin nods, and wraps his arms around Eliot’s neck to draw him back down for another kiss.

Eliot presses against him and Quentin can feel he’s hard, and god, it’s so hot, knowing that Eliot is turned on by kissing him, that Eliot _wants_ him, and maybe that doesn't make him unique, like, any idiot can give someone a boner. As a guy, he knows all too well it doesn’t take a lot sometimes. 

But it’s _Eliot_ , and it’s intoxicating, and he wants to do something about it.

He manages to take Eliot by surprise, and in a flash, their positions are reversed; Eliot is the one against the door and Quentin holds him there, loosely, at his hips.

They stare at each other, breathing heavily, wide eyed. And then Quentin is dropping to his knees.

“Um,” Eliot says, staring down at him. “Are you sure you want to—have you done this before?” 

Quentin glares up at him.

“Have I done what before? Given someone a blow job? I know I didn’t make my uh, romantic history sound too impressive before, but I’m not a _virgin_.”

Eliot reaches out and strokes his cheek. “I know, baby. I’m sorry. I meant have you ever done this uh, in a bar bathroom before.”

 _Baby_. Quentin’s heart races and the squirming, swooping feeling in his stomach kicks into high gear.

“No, but I assume the general idea is the same, regardless of the setting,” he shrugs.

Eliot presses his lips together in obvious amusement. 

“You’re killing me. I’m just saying, you don’t have to do this—”

“Do I look like I don’t want to?” Quentin frowns. “I mean, if _you_ don’t want to, then—”

“I do,” Eliot says, his hand back on Quentin’s cheek. “You have no idea how much I’ve been thinking about your mouth.” 

Quentin thrills at both the touch and the words. He doesn’t even care that he has no idea what’s on the floor he’s kneeling on. It had looked clean enough, and what he can’t see won’t kill him. He’ll wash these jeans tomorrow.

Right now, all he cares about is getting Eliot’s belt off, and then unzipping his pants, and then getting his mouth on—yeah, his huge, gorgeous dick. Quentin _knew_ it would be worth the wait. 

Eliot gently strokes his hair and makes the most amazing noise when Quentin takes him into his mouth. 

It’s a lot, and Quentin wants so, so badly for this to be good. He forces himself to go slow, breathes through his nose, lets his jaw go slack. When he has to take a break and pull off a little, but Eliot doesn’t seem to mind, because the noises he makes when Quentin uses his tongue on the head of his dick…Quentin thinks he could get off just from listening to Eliot groan and gasp, knowing that _he_ is the one making Eliot feel that good.

He’s so hard already, he feels lightheaded. Would Eliot think it was weird if he unzipped his pants and started touching himself, or would he like that? He’d probably like it. Quentin moans around Eliot’s dick, imagining it, a shiver runs down his spine and he sucks harder, thinking about how it would be hot, to have Eliot watch him—

“Fuck,” Eliot gasps. His hand squeezes at the back of Quentin’s neck and Quentin opens his eyes. He looks up to see Eliot staring down at him. His eyes are so dark and _desperate_ , like Quentin’s mouth is taking him apart. 

For a heartbeat, they just look at each other, and then Quentin takes him as deep as he can, his eyes watering with the effort. He’s actually drooling a little, which would be embarrassing, but Eliot just says “oh my god,” and his hips twitch forward like he can’t help it. Both of his hands are tangled in Quentin’s hair now, and Quentin’s dick twitches in his jeans when Eliot _pulls_ , just hard enough to make his scalp tingle. 

“Sorry—” Eliot gasps, “I’m…you’re so—” 

Quentin groans encouragingly, because fuck, it feels so good, and he wants Eliot to feel good too. Better that good, he thinks wildly, he wants to be the best, the best Eliot’s ever had—

Eliot lets out a breathy shout and then he’s coming, his back arched up off the door and his head thrown back. Quentin swallows around him and that just makes Eliot gasp even more. He only pulls away when Eliot’s gasps turn weak and pained sounding, and his hands push at Quentin’s shoulders, a gentle plea that he can’t take anymore.

Quentin sits back on his heels and wipes at his mouth. Eliot stares down at him. 

“Do you want—I could,” he offers, as he tucks himself back into his pants and zips them up, his breath still coming short and fast.

“I’m too close,” Quentin says, and Eliot’s eyes get heated again at the sound of his voice, low and hoarse. “Could you just—”

He stands up and Eliot immediately reaches for him, pulls him into a kiss.

“You’re amazing,” Eliot murmurs against Quentin’s cheek as he unbuttons his pants. 

“Wow,” Quentin laughs. “Um, I don’t know about that, I just— _oh_.” 

Eliot’s hand wraps around him and it’s so _big_ and warm and god, he does this thing with his wrist that has Quentin gasping and straining against him, and this isn’t going to take very long at all. 

“I’m—I’m close,” he whispers, flushing a little, because Eliot literally just started touching him, but Eliot just strokes his hair and nods. He uses his freakishly long arm to reach over to the paper towel dispenser, all while keeping his other hand moving in a steady, perfect rhythm over Quentin’s cock. 

“I actually was a Boy Scout for a few years. Not by choice, but still,” Eliot says teasingly as he holds up a handful of paper towels. “You know what they say. Always be prepared—”

“Oh my god, that’s—not a turn-on at all,” Quentin groans.

Eliot nudges his nose against his jaw, then nuzzles his ear. “Oh? I guess I should stop then.” 

“Don’t you dare,” Quentin gasps. “Kiss me.”

“Yes sir,” Eliot says, and then he does.

Quentin thrusts desperately into his hand, once, twice, and that’s all it takes. 

It’s so good, so intense, that he’s not sure he could stand on his own. But Eliot is there, holding him, cleaning him up, whispering into his ear about how good he is, how he made Eliot feel so good. 

Dimly, Quentin remembers where they are and that their friends are out there in the bar. 

“We should probably…uh, Julia,” he yawns. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Eliot says. He drops a kiss on Quentin’s nose. “You’re cute when you yawn. And I’m proud to have worn you out.” 

Quentin rolls his eyes. “Okay, don’t flatter yourself, it’s a natural biological—”

Laughing, Eliot pulls him into another kiss. 

When they finally leave the bathroom, Eliot goes first. Quentin makes sure his pants are all zipped and buttoned correctly, and that they haven’t made a mess—oh god, he just gave someone a blow job in a _bar bathroom_. At least they didn’t get caught. Although Paulina probably would’ve just high fived him. 

When a reasonable amount of time has passed, Quentin exits the bathroom and heads back to the bar. Everyone is back at the table and pulling on their coats.

“Q!” Julia yells. She throws her arms around him and spins him in a circle. “There you are! We were looking for you for _ages_.”

She’s clearly very drunk. James and Margo also look pretty bright eyed and giggly. Quentin’s glad they all had a good time while he was in the bathroom sucking Eliot’s dick. At least he doesn’t have to feel bad about _that_.

“It was like five minutes,” James clarifies. 

“Well, here I am,” Quentin agrees. “So did you beat Margo at pool?”

Julia blinks at him. “Huh. You know, I don’t remember. I think we stopped counting.”

“Oh, we definitely stopped counting quite some time ago,” Margo says, grinning broadly. “For the record though, I totally would’ve won.”

“Hey.” Julia points at her, her expression comically serious in the way only a drunk person can be. “I take offense to that. I will be demanding a rematch.”

“Anytime, babe,” Margo yawns. “You’ve got my Insta. Okay, I’m ready to pop an aspirin and sleep for like twelve hours. El?”

Eliot agrees that he’s ready to go, and they all head outside together.

At the corner, Eliot and Margo need to go right, and Quentin, Julia and James, left. 

“Well. Until next time,” Eliot says. 

“See you at Christmas,” Julia says, and either tonight has endeared Eliot to her a little more, or she’s drunk enough not to care—maybe a combination of both—but there’s no resentment in her voice. 

They head their separate directions and call out various forms of goodbyes at each other. When Quentin looks back, Eliot is glancing back, too. 

He smiles. Quentin ducks his head and smiles too. Then he turns around and concentrates on making sure Julia doesn’t weave into traffic as she drunkenly happily hums something Quentin can’t identify.

“Fun night?” he asks James, and James nods.

“Yeah, definitely. Margo’s…wow. You?” 

Quentin smiles to himself. He knows tomorrow he’ll feel anxious and a little guilty, because this is definitely just more than one little kiss now. And he’s keeping it from Julia. He’ll worry about what this means going forward. But tonight, he doesn’t feel any of that. 

“Yeah. It wasn’t bad.” 

-

Back at the apartment, Quentin and James put Julia to bed, and Quentin throws his pants and everything else he was wearing, for good measure, in the wash. As he’s brushing his teeth, he suddenly thinks about Margo’s comment to Julia as they were leaving the bar. Something about Instagram. it's sticking out to him for some reason. Why?

As he’s crawling into bed, he realizes. Eliot had followed Julia on Instagram. He pulls out his phone to confirm his suspicion that Julia has posted multiple pictures from the bar and tagged her location. 

He opens the message app. 

_so tell me the truth. you guys just “happened” to show up at our regular bar tonight? really?_

Eliot texts back after a minute. 

_you know what they say...of all the college bars in all of the boroughs in all of new york you walked into mine…….i think it’s something like that_

Quentin scoffs. Another text comes a few seconds later. 

_saw on Julia’s insta you guys go there a lot, had a feeling you might be there tonite now that classes are over. figured it was worth a try._

Quentin wonders for a moment how Eliot knew classes were over and then he remembers his own stupid text that mentioned being done with finals. Eliot pieced together this information and showed up at a completely unremarkable bar that is surely not up to his usual standards, and dragged his equally glamorous best friend along, all because… 

_wow Julia will be flattered to hear that_

Quentin’s fishing now, and it’s obvious, but there’s always a chance that getting a bathroom blowjob from Quentin was just a nice bonus for Eliot and not the main attraction. 

_I want to get along with julia. but she’s not the one I wanted to see and you know it_

_and I wanted margo to meet you too. she approves btw_

There’s something about seeing it typed out, right there in front of him, in the glowing light of his phone in the otherwise pitch dark room that makes this all incredibly real. 

This isn’t just going to go away. At least, not for him. 

For now, all he can say is _i had a great time tonight_ and smile when Eliot texts back _lying here listening to bruce springsteen and thinking of u_

Quentin falls asleep with his phone in his hand. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While doing some research, I found this amazing Bruce Springsteen quote about New Jersey that I thought was absolutely wonderful and perfect here.
> 
> _I just read an article in the newspaper that says that New Jersey remains the No. 1 state that people move away from! (laughs) After all my hard work ... but I made my living writing about moving away from New Jersey, so maybe that has something to do with it._
> 
> So while this chapter was 14k of mostly just vibing, I think we're gonna see some drama soon...what will Christmas bring?

**Author's Note:**

> Part 2 should be out soon!
> 
> Title from Bruce Springsteen's "The Ties That Bind," which is thematically appropriate and also shoutout to the world's most famous Jersey boy, Bruce. I have a feeling he'll come up in the next chapter of this fic. 
> 
> I also agree that lime sparkling water is the best flavor and that spatchcocking is a hilarious word.


End file.
